The Realm of Glass
by Eileniessa
Summary: Sequel to Promises of Love, and Death: When Yennefer died, her body left empty, her soul willingly offered to O'Dimm to clear Geralt's debt, hope was lost, but now, there's a chance, a deal to bring her home. All they have to do is go to hell and back.
1. Hope

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the books by Andrzej Sapkowski and the game series by CD Projekt Red. I do not claim ownership to any of these characters and have written this fan fiction for entertainment, not financial gain.

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Warnings:

 **Contains spoilers for the Witcher 3 Wild Hunt, The Witcher book series and Hearts of Stone**

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 _To Hope_ \- John Keats:

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;

Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,

Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,

Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!

* * *

"Be sure to shut the door behind you, I'd rather not have any foul, uninvited guests swooping in on us." Proclaimed Yennefer as the trio retreated into the bedroom.

As Geralt turned around to pull the door shut he saw Philippa glare viciously in Yennefer's general direction and he was quick to pull the door shut. The Sorceress was already fuming with anger at the several unexpected delays prior to the meetings and it seemed that her colleague was bent on stoking the fire which was already catastrophically growing out of control. Philippa could rupture at any given moment and the ominous glance shot at Yennefer's retreating form informed him painfully clearly exactly where this emancipated rage would be directed. He sighed.

"I think Philippa is about to reach breaking point." Said the Witcher with as much nonchalance as he could muster, but both women raised an eyebrow at him making it evident that his false pretence of calm had not been accepted.

"Geralt, we're not having this discussion again. Neither the Lodge or Philippa would ever dare to give substance to the thought of trying something against me and even if they did I can fend for myself, so please, bury your ill-founded fears because your overprotectiveness is teetering rather dangerously on the line between suffocating and charming. I'd prefer you reverted to the latter." Said Yennefer imperatively giving him a rather irritated side-long glance as Ciri walked past her and perched on the edge of the bed, internally rolling her eyes at the irony of the situation, given the Sorceress' own Mother Hen nature.

He didn't make any further comments as he walked further into their temporary accommodation, reaching down to move one of the chairs over to the bed. Before his fingers clasped around the wooden backrest he felt a soft hand against his arm.

"Geralt."

He turned around to face her without a moment's thought, compelled but the abrupt, yet pleasing, change in tone as she softly whispered his name into the silence as though the word was weaved with a magic he could neither place, nor defy. It was frightening to think about the effect that one word had on him when it fell so tenderly from her lips. So, he never once thought on it. The thought of losing that feeling was an idea to horrible to even imagine. Nobody else had ever, no…could ever, make him feel this way.

"While your constant fussing and concern is undeniably tedious, I must admit that I find it…endearing. Thank you, Geralt, for looking after me."

The way her lips curled up into a subtle yet overwhelmingly sincere smile, they way her melodic voice captured him like no siren's song could ever do, the way her lips lovingly brushed against his own as she kissed him and the way her scent filled every inch of his senses, nothing could ever compare to this, to her. He never knew how he had managed to survive without her.

"Always." He replied with intimate quietness using every last ounce of strength to refrain from reaching out for her as though fearful she would, like a dream, slip away. There was a small cough.

"So, what's this news then?" Asked Ciri, completely unabashed by the display of affection, a small smile on her face.

"Hmmm, I think it would be easier to show you." Said Yennefer, sitting down on the bed beside her as Geralt drew a chair up, grinning at Ciri who watched in confusion as the Sorceress held out her left hand and muttered a spell.

The young-ashen haired woman let out an audible gasp as the concealment charm covering the ring lifted, revealing the memorizing diamond encased in a small silver star which sat atop the silver ring, two smaller but not less spectacular diamonds embedded in the band on either side and next to them a small violet amethyst and a tiny black pearl.

"About time!" Ciri squealed in delight as she flung her arms around both of them before looking at the engagement ring more closely, eyes wide with awe. "I was beginning to think I might need to intervene, I know that Witchers and Sorceresses can live a long time but that's no excuse for you two to take all the time in the world reaching the inevitable."

"It seems that the court is rubbing off on our little Witcher girl a little too much, Geralt, she's quickly becoming even more pompous than Philippa." Said Yennefer facetiously as Ciri looked smugly between the recently engaged couple.

"Alright Miss-Know-it-All," said Geralt as they laughed at her exaggerated wounded expression, "it might have taken us too long to get here, but that doesn't matter now, because at least we got there eventually."

"Well, the ring truly is beautiful so I suppose I can forgive you for the delay. I'm glad you two finally realized you're meant for each other, you deserve some peace and happiness. Now, I want to know how it happened and want every detail about the wedding so far."

As Geralt rose to his feet, the trio heading towards the door and eventually the meeting, the sounds of Yennefer and Ciri talking merrily about the engagement and the ceremony drifted around him. He smiled to himself. Admittedly, he regretted waiting as long as he had, but holding your heart out in your hands like that is one of life's most formidable and terrifying challenges. Especially when to world dictates you have no heart to share. In truth, without her, he doubted he'd have ever found it. When he was with her, he could never feel like the monster he was created to be. But rather, something more. And he preferred it. Immensely.

From the second his question had been unleashed into the night air, his heart had stopped as he held it out to his beloved for her to either nurture, or shatter. Once she had flung her arms around him, kissing him before an answer tumbled from her lips frantically, his heart raced again strengthened by the gentle hand which had accepted it, offering her's in its place as they professed their eternal love to the stars, like some shitty two crown romance.

Sure, it had taken them a long time to get there, but he knew that he was exactly where he wanted to be, or more precisely, with exactly who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, with every challenge great and small, with every nightmare, every battle, every burden, and with every bright day, with every laugh and smile and with every moment of his living memory. Yennefer had promised him that night that she loved who he was, the man he was. Together that night they had promised to love each other, forever. He, that night, had promised never to leave her side, to never leave her alone…

"But you have…you failed her."

It felt as though the unconscionable voice of death had whispered into his ear as he reached his hand out for the doorknob. The sound was unnervingly familiar. He whirled around, alert eyes scanning the room soon falling upon a sight which made him recoil from phantom pains stabbing at his chest.

He was no longer in their accommodation, but in the large T-shaped hall situated in the palace on Thanedd Island. A thick crowd of people, all elaborately dressed in garish colours and precious gems which would have made any peacock green with envy, stood like an obstacle before him, gawking and staring at the spectacle before them. At the thing which urged him closer.

Hastily he pushed his way through the crowd and, eyes searching forwards, he was blissfully ignorant to the disgusted faces the mages were giving him as battled his way forward for what seemed like hours on end until at last he found what was calling him.

A small female figure dressed in black and white was lying on the floor, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling as Ciri wept over her dead body. On the floor beside her a man leant over her body, slowly he turned his face towards him. Geralt gasped.

"I failed her…"

His face was contorted with malice as he smiled devilishly at his execrable crime, blood dripping from the heart held tightly in his right hand as crimson liquid flooded from the hole in Yennefer's chest, weaving its way across the floor towards Geralt. His body petrified by the sight of his own reflection staring back at him.

"I KILLED HER!"

The scent of decaying lilac and gooseberries enveloped his senses as the blood snaked its way over his body, staining his hands dark red as the lifeblood of his beloved dripped from his body, its touch burning his skin like molten iron while the image of his sin emerged from the shadows of his subconscious and hung before his mind like a painting.

"You killed Mother!" Eyes red and puffy from the tears pooling at her feet Ciri screamed shrilly in his face. Her look of pure and utter content piercing through him like a dagger, a thousand times more painful than the hands pushing him backwards. "You took her from me!"

Hands clamped around his arms and pushed against him as the crowd swarmed around him, dragging him further away from Yennefer as he left a trail of blood in his wake.

"You're a monster." Triss' sharp nails dug into his flesh as she glared nastily at him, her usually happy face filled with anger.

"A savage." Eskel and Lambert threw him to the floor, spitting in his face.

"You never deserved her love." Tendrils of magic drew him to his feet as Philippa flung him once more into the jostling crowd.

"You're a bloody Monster." Dandelion and Zoltan turned their backs on him with a look of loathing as he was pushed out from the crowd, his back slamming into soft flesh before a soft hand turned him around.

"You killed me…" Yennefer's lifeless eyes were wide with shock as she clutched at the hole in her chest, staring down at the heart lying silent in his stained hands. "I thought you loved me…"

"No!" Geralt lunged for her as she went limp, but it wasn't his hands she fell into.

"I'll take good care of her, Geralt. At least with me, she won't ever be alone…"

Holding Yennefer's body in his arms O'Dimm gradually began to step away towards the open door, smiling happily at Geralt and laughing at his fruitless efforts to reach her as he ran forwards, the door moving further and further away. He was losing her.

"Say your goodbyes." The door slammed shut.

He flung himself at the handle, wrenching it open. But there was nothing there. Only darkness. The door had been shut. The boundary placed. Yennefer was lost. Forever.

He stepped out into the nothingness, hoping to reach her through death, but something pulled him back through the door which slammed shut as he skidded along the stone-cold floor, landing in a heap. He didn't have the strength, or the will, to get back up. He didn't want to go on. Without her, he didn't know how to. He was empty.

"Look how easily he has forsaken you, such little effort to save you." The hatred which coursed through his veins at the sound pulled him from his pitiful sorrow as he bared his teeth and balled his fists.

It took mere seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dim light which filled the small, dank dungeon as he sprang to his feet and at the ready, but as he did so heavy chains appeared out of the darkness, wrapping themselves around his body and pulling him backwards, his back smashing into the damp stone wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man dressed in a yellow tunic move from the shadows as Gaunter O'Dimm sauntered into the centre of the cell.

"No, Yen!"

Geralt hopelessly struggled against his bonds, his voice failing to reach the Sorceress hung up in the middle of the cell like a slab of meat, her arms held up over here head by black chains hanging from the ceiling while her feet were shackled together and chained to the floor. Yennefer's gaze was fixed on the man purposefully striding into her line of view as she writhed around desperately.

"No matter, my dear little soul, I will help you forget his worthless love by removing any trace of it which still lingers on your skin." Said O'Dimm kindly, as he seized her by the hair forcing her gaze onto the knife he had pulled from one of his satchels. Geralt recognised it as the type of knife hunters use to skin their prey. Slowly he bought it closer to her exposed skin. She screamed.

* * *

The radiant midday sun shed its rays over the halcyon estate as a young woman with ashen-hair and a scar on her cheek dressed in an elegant emerald dress materialized in the courtyard of Corvo Bianco, yet her abrupt appearance did little to disturb the calm atmosphere as the workers cast only momentary glances at the flash of blue before retreating once more to their duties. They knew the day, the occasion. None could forget it.

As Ciri looked up at the main house she sighed, she hoped for better this year, even if it was only a little progress, but the curtains upstairs were still closed tight and he was nowhere in sight. Unconsciously she raised a hand to her necklace, a graceful silver swallow hung on the delicate chain, a green garnet clutched in its claws. A present from her Mother which she hadn't taken off since the last time she saw her, several years ago. She closed her eyes and drew strength from the memento. She stepped over the threshold.

* * *

A small sliver of light which leaked through a gap in the curtains illuminated the space enough for Ciri to view the sorry sight before her. The room was clean, the mirrors washed, the dressers dusted, the floor swept and the clothes piled neatly away in the wardrobe, but the bedroom stood in stark contrast to the rooms only other occupancy.

He sat on the floor with his back resting against the side of the bed, his shoulders were slumped, his posture deflated as though his body's strength had withered away. The bed sheets were knotted and tangled, and damp with cold sweat, the physical remnants of another haunted nightmare. Geralt's eyes were dull and weary, deprived of more than just sleep. Lifeless eyes stared at the silver wedding band clasped between his fingers, the chain still around his neck as he read the inscription on the inside. _Forever Your Yen_.

As Ciri approached he turned his focus from the painfully mesmerizing object in his hands and offered her a meek smile in greeting and in an unspoken understanding she sat down beside him, snuggling up to him as he wrapped an arm around her taking one of her small hands on his own. It made their sorrow easier to bear.

After several moments the pair got up, Ciri opening the blinds as Geralt changed into a clean white shirt and pair of trousers. They headed outside hand in hand.

* * *

On the edge of a small hill that overlooked the estate there grew an enchanted tree which drew the eyes of all passers-by with its captivating beauty. Its boughs were filled with lavish green leaves and flowers of various shape and design, all of which were a deep, warm violet. Their scent, that of lilac and gooseberries, cocooned the well-kept grave which lay on the hill beneath the shade of the tree they'd made for her. It flourished in her ashes.

Slowly they made their annual pilgrimage to her resting place, arms laden with black, white and violet flowers which they set in a vase beside her head, eyes tracing its inscription. _Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg. A loving Mother and Soulmate who brought so much joy to those she loved, and we will carry her in our hearts forever, each moment cherishing the gift she gave us. We love you, Yen, Mother._

After placing the flowers beside her they sat together on the small bench next to the grave, respecting the mournful silence as they drifted away into this moment of pure nostalgia. They reminisced about her charming yet aggravating stubbornness, her deep violet eyes and sincere smile, her constant assurance that she was okay, her mother-henning, her mocking but compassionate voice.

But their memories were bittersweet. It was hard to remember the woman she was without their minds wandering towards thoughts of how she was now. Of how her soul suffered. Of the pain that eternally afflicted her, because of them. Especially because of the nightmares…

The two years since her death had done next to nothing to lessen the draining sense of guilt which had breached Geralt's heart, feeding off his joy in life like a parasite. The nightmares only strengthened the disease which wracked his mind. The burning sensation of hunger which ate at her insides. The way her bones cracked back to their natural form. Chains wrapped around her fair skin which burned her flesh to the bone. Thousands of cuts marring her body which oozed bloody agonizingly slowly as she was drained to the last drop. The hunter's knife. The screams. So, much, screaming.

But though these images had the appearance of nightmarish apparitions, the folly of his sickened mind in its heavy grief and guilt, in truth these sights were worse than the deluded fears of his mind. These were not nightmares, but flashes and fragments of Yennefer's torture with which O'Dimm still taunted him. Of this, he was certain, because the pain he was forced to witness was beyond imagination.

The others knew of his nightmares and many had tried to help, but no number of spells or potions could keep these windows at bay. Nenneke had tried to persuade him to talk about what he saw, but he couldn't bring himself to share the details of her torment to anyone. The burden was too great, as was the cost.

Some part of him didn't want to talk anyhow, because he didn't want the nightmares to stop. As ruinous as they were they also remained the only connection he had left to Yennefer, and because the images helped to maintain the guilt which had so consumed him. He feared that without the feeling, he would become lost. It was self-destructive. And it was forcing a wedge between them.

"Did you see her again last night?" Asked Ciri quietly after a lengthy silence.

Geralt sighed deeply, he knew where this conversation was going. Sooner or later the question always came up but the path never changed nor did the end, both were too stubborn to change course. There was always a clash.

"Yes." He answered hoping against hope that for once his blunt answer might squash the questions bubbling in her mind, but he'd long ago stopped believing in miracles.

"What happened, Geralt? Please, tell me." He sighed again. It never got any easier.

"I saw her with O'Dimm, chained in a cell. She screamed." Out of the corner of his eye, the Witcher could see her watching him closely, waiting for him to elaborate as she examined his features.

"How was she? What did he do? Geralt, I want to know." Her voice was louder this time, her tone more urgent, desperate. She hoped against hope that this time would be different. She still longed for a much-needed miracle.

"Ciri, it was just a nightmare and-"

"LIAR!" Her accusation sliced through the silence as her calm tone of voice shattered in an instance. "Stop treating me like a child, Geralt, I know these aren't ordinary nightmares so tell me! I have the right to know what's happening to my Mother!"

He couldn't bring himself to look at her. He loathed himself for the pain he inflicted on her and kept his eyes fixed on the deep violet flower in his hands, carefully twirling it between his fingers as he braced himself for another onslaught.

"You wish to know what's happening to Lady Yennefer? We can grant you that wish, to understand what she experiences, that which is beyond your own mortal comprehension."

Time seemed to slow around them. The gentle rustling of the leaves ceased as the winds vanished, the birds halted mid-flight their song lost to the still clouds hanging above them. Two figures, a man and a woman, were perched in the tree staring down at them with an undeniable look of superiority. With Ciri and Geralt's eyes on her, the woman spoke again with a slightly mocking voice.

"But it matters not that you understand the extent of how she suffers, because, after all, what matters most, is that Yennefer isn't dead…"

* * *

James Anderson, _The Never-Open Desert Diner_ : **Chapter 2, The Deal**

"In all those stories about people who sold their souls to the devil, I never quite understood why the devil was the bad guy, or why it was okay to screw him out of his soul. They got what they wanted: fame, money, love, whatever—though usually it turned out not to be what they really wanted or expected. Was that the devil's fault? I never thought so. Like John Wayne said, "Life's tough. It's even tougher when you're stupid."

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Notes

We're finally here, THE SEQUEL! Hope the wait will be worth it 😊 All I can say is that if you think this is bad, shits going to get a lot worse… I'll try and throw in fluff when and where I can.

If you haven't seen my post on Tumblr then here's a little info for you about this story: chapters fortnightly, smaller chapters and chapters varying more in length. With university and the complexity of the story I can't commit to the same structure as PoLaD, sorry guys but I'd rather take my time than rush things.

As always feel free to PM me and follow me on Tumblr (Eileniessa and Eileniessa's creative blog) until next time 3


	2. The Deal

**[UPDATED - rewritten and new plot content added]**

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James Anderson, The Never-Open Desert Diner: Chapter 2, The Deal

"In all those stories about people who sold their souls to the devil, I never quite understood why the devil was the bad guy, or why it was okay to screw him out of his soul. They got what they wanted: fame, money, love, whatever-though usually it turned out not to be what they really wanted or expected. Was that the devil's fault? I never thought so. Like John Wayne said, "Life's tough. It's even tougher when you're stupid."

* * *

The two faces looking at him from the stilled boughs of Yennefer's tree were unfamiliar to Geralt and yet, he knew beyond any doubt who - or rather what - they were. It was the eyes that gave them away. The only feature they had that wasn't oddly unexceptional or easily forgettable. What made them stand out, Geralt couldn't rightly say, but the memory of them was cold and sharp; impossible to handle without getting cut. It was O'Dimm's eyes that haunted his dreams, and now he saw them from Yennefer's tree. _What the hell were they doing here?!_

The man and the woman smiled at him with a knowing look as he drew his conclusions. They were dressed is well-made but practical clothes that set them apart from both peasants and the nobility. The man wore a deep red tunic that hung loosely off his shoulders, clinging to his body only where a belt pulled it close, pouches and bottles hanging from it. His trousers were a rich brown and his hair a shade lighter, cut short much like Lambert's. The woman was dressed in a navy dress, a popular colour among some of Toussaint's smaller communities (such as the one he's recently taken a contract from), with a bag slung across her chest. Dark brown hair touched her covered shoulders. They carried themselves with an air of pride and confidence that wouldn't have been out of place among a cohort of Magicians parading at a banquet as they dropped down from the tree and approached the two mourners.

"Though your guess rings true, Master Geralt, please do allow us to formally introduce ourselves," said the man. He sounded as familiar as his face looked, meaning that there was something in the way he spoke that bought forth a surfeit of painful memories that took the Witcher back to happier yesteryears. "I am Bodas O'Gurye, also known to some as the Man of Crystal." O'Gurye took a deep and elaborate bow, one hand upon his chest as he bent forwards, the other held out extended at his side.

"And I," said the woman to his right, "am Dika Un Wake, otherwise called the Woman of Silver." Just as the man before her had, Un Wake bowed upon introducing herself and stood with her hands behind her back while the tree cast shadows across her face. She was smiling pleasantly at Geralt, or so it would seem at first glance. Should one look for longer and peer more carefully at her face, they would catch what the Witcher saw immediately. Her smile did not reach her eyes, not even a little bit. They were utterly cold. "You may call me," she continued after a slight pause in which neither he nor Ciri said a word, "Mistress Mirror if you'd prefer. I believe you are familiar with our family name."

Geralt knew he must be dreaming. There couldn't be more of...him, and it was even less likely that they would want to help. Besides, a couple of months after Thanedd, between the nightmares, he'd had dreams in which Yennefer was still with him. He'd find a solution within one of the dusty tomes he'd been pouring over for the last few days, a way to bring her home. Joy would flutter within his chest and then, he'd wake up, as he would now. O'Dimm was trying to play him for a fool. Baiting him. He wanted to see how desperate he was, to know if he'd jump upon even the weakest glimmers of hope if they presented themselves to him. It was damned infuriating because Geralt was giving him exactly what he wanted.

As they stood under Yennefer's tree, their feet upon her ashes, Geralt would listen to what they had to say. He knew he'd wake up, dreams crushed, but he hadn't anything to lose - not anymore. "Explain," growled the Witcher. Master and Mistress Mirror inclined their heads courteously, unperturbed by the significance of their proclamation.

"No." Ciri's murmur, though coming quietly unbidden from her lips, split apart the silence that had briefly settled upon the hill in the absence of the wind and the humming in the tree. Geralt could hear the unshed tears in the quiver of her voice. "Don't explain. Don't say anything - just leave."

Another spell of silence. The Mirrors watched the young woman closely in a manner that resembled the unspoken words exchanged between Mages when privacy was needed but wasn't anywhere to be found. Then, O'Gurye spoke from behind his smile.

"If that is what her highnesses desires than our biding it shall be. But, we do not believe you have spoken truthfully. You do not honestly wish for your Mother to remain apart from you. To rest longer still beside our brother."

From Ciri's reaction, a distant onlooker might have guessed that some manner of profane utterance had been made at her or her family's expense. Such a response, therefore, to those beyond the context, would not have appeared as unpredictable as it did to the man standing beside her. Geralt was taken aback by the abrupt curling of her fingers and whitening of her knuckles.

"Stop it! Stop lying to us! She's dead. Dead! Let us mourn in peace! Go, and take your hope with you. We'll not fall for it" she screamed.

Ciri was standing a hairs width away from their unexpected, and unwanted, guests. Her chest was rising and falling erratically and she was baring her teeth at the Mirrors who made no reaction, continuing to beam at her with their empty smiles. Geralt wondered if they saw it too, or heard it in her voice. The sadness underlying her blaze of fury; a trait she shared with Yennefer. Though Ciri was far easier to read than the Sorceress had ever been. She was a book he'd taken years to study, the sort that was intriguing and full of dark and dangerous secrets that you knew should be left buried in the pages, but which you were drawn to like an insect to the fire which burns it. When he finally found it easier to read, the book had snapped shut on his fingers and remained sealed despite his attempts to peer again at the story it told.

"You have our word, Lady Ciri" O'Guyre's honeyed voice drew Geralt from his thoughts "that no lie has ever passed our lips. We are tradesmen, our words are our bonds and trust a key currency in our trade. While her soul rests near beside it, the bewitching Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg has not passed beyond the veil of death. She is not dead, and she is not lost. We can bring her back - we can give her life."

Ciri opened and closed her mouth. Her body was shaking and the worst of the tremors were in her hands. "Ciri," Geralt called gently. Over her shoulder she looked at him, her eyes narrowed and glistening. Having caught her attention, he gestured for her to follow and walked towards the other side of the hill, away from Yennefer's grave. There were a few seconds until Ciri's footsteps joined his. The Witcher waited from her just outside the Mirror's earshot, or outside a human's anyhow. He expected that moving away had done nothing to hinder their eavesdropping, but it was worth a try.

"You need to calm down, Ciri," said Geralt flatly. Crossing his arms, he watched her reaction closely and tried to ignore the eyes of the Mirrors upon him from beneath the tree. For a moment her eyes flickered open. Ciri appeared to search his face cautiously, her green eyes showing faint signs of confusion - or perhaps disbelief.

"What do you care how I treat them?" she asked, the casual tone of her voiced betrayed by her narrowing eyes.

"Because I don't want them to go," he admitted.

There was a time when Geralt could have said with almost complete certainty how Ciri would have reacted in a given situation. Many of the traits she didn't share with Yennefer, she had from him or from the others Witchers; Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir and Coen. But that time had long passed. Geralt was ashamed to acknowledge the distance that had come between them after Thanedd. Yennefer would have been mad at him for it, she deserved to be. He hadn't been acting as much as a mentor and Ciri had been taking better care of him than he had of her, or of himself. It was hard not to push her away. Maybe she'd end up dead too.

Geralt waited for Ciri's reaction while a number of scenarios played inside his head, more than he'd go through before a hunt. This was a situation far harder (and more dangerous) than most of the contracts he'd taken over the past few years. The silence was uncomfortable, the type that settled upon a place where no silence should be. It was painfully obvious and made him feel desperate and hopeless. He struggled for something to say while the silence drew all the words from his mind, leaving his tongue to wag noiselessly. Ciri found her voice first.

"You really believe them?"

Geralt thought for a moment. "I want to," he replied.

Ciri nodded slowly, her eyes dropping from his face. She dragged her toes through the grass, the blades bending and straightening as she thought. Geralt saw her fingering the necklace Yennefer had given her a few days before she'd died. It suited her perfectly and Ciri wore it as frequently as the Sorceress had worn her special pendant.

"I'll listen, Geralt," she said quietly, in almost a whisper "if that's what you want. But know that I do so without any hope." The Witcher inclined his head. It was understandable.

Un Wake and O'Gurye stood exactly where they'd left them, cutting their conversation short as he and Ciri rejoined them. Geralt marvelled at the strangeness of the situation, that he was preparing to talk about Yennefer's soul while at the foot of her grave. There was some dark humour in it that Lambert would doubtlessly appreciate. Geralt wasn't too certain which parts of this story were the hardest to believe. That Yennefer wasn't dead, or that there was more than one person with O'Dimm's boundless power (and probably his cruelty too). There was also the fact that he was willing to lend the Mirrors his ear considering all he knew about O'Dimm.

The Witcher looked upon their guests, studying them with equal measure. "We're listening, but speak clear and plainly - if you can. I've no time for riddles and veiled words."

They bowed deeply. "As you command," chimed Un Wake. "Let us return to the heart of the matter, from which we shall spin our tale. Yennefer is not dead. While it is true that her body, her mortal vessel, died upon Thanedd's marbled floor, the light of her soul did not fade with her final breath. As my dear brother" she gestured towards O'Gurye "said, the Lady's soul has not passed into the beyond. Where it resides we cannot describe to you both simply and precisely, the former we shall fulfil. The Realm of Glass - that is where Lady Yennefer lives on.

"It is a place of torment and eternity, a prison between the land of mortality and that which lies in the beyond. There, all of O'Dimm's acquired souls rest once they have died as you understand the term, kept from passing into the beyond which beckons all lost souls. Trapped in the Realm of Glass, between the two places most souls will only ever know, it is within our power to guide her soul back to you. To tether it again to her mortal vessel. Should that be your desire. And do not fret" said Mistress Mirror, accompanying her words with a raised palm meant to halt the sounds forming at the tip of their tongues. "The body you burned was not Yennefer's, it was not real. Her actual vessel is, and has been not long after she left with O'Dimm, within our care."

Geralt nodded, aware that Un Wake was looking at him in a manner that demanded some form of response. It was a lot to take in, not because it was complicated to understand. Rather, because it was too good to be true. Good news always took longer for his mind to process. From the little that he could remember about the Isle, Ciri had taken him and Yennefer to after Rivia, Geralt knew he'd spent his early days there worrying. Waiting for something to go wrong and, while it didn't for a long time, his dream had eventually come crashing down. He'd expected the same to happen here too, in Corvo Bianco and again it had. What swift blow would shatter his hopes now, Geralt wondered. And what would become of him when it did? Did he have any further to fall...?

Slowly the Witcher strode over to the tree upon the hill. He traced the lyrics woven into it bark with his eyes, Priscilla's song, and remembered the longing and loneliness it had evoked in him when first he heard it in Novigrad. It had made his stay there that bit more painful, knowing that she was waiting for him across the sea but that he could not rush to her side and begin accounting for their lost time. When Yennefer had moved to the south with him, Geralt had thought he'd never have to feel the misery of being without her. That, despite going their separate ways from time to time, they'd always return to each other whatever happened.

Then came O'Dimm, a whatever that he'd not taken into consideration. The whatever that could, and had, kept them apart. He pushed them too, taking Yennefer further away into the darkness as Geralt remembered less about the woman she was, seeing only the fate he'd condemned her too. The guilt and despair helped make him whole. If anything ill came of talking with the Mirrors, he'd take it. It was nothing less than he deserved.

"Yen...can we see her?" asked Geralt, placing a hand upon the tree. His medallion hummed and vibrated lightly against his chest while he traced his fingers lightly over some of the words. The Witcher knew nothing about how the tree had been made or enchanted, how it worked, but he could feel the wealth of magic within it as it worked to keep the flowers bright and in bloom and to make them heavy with the scent of lilac and gooseberries. Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt spotted O'Gurye walking up beside him.

"That depends, Master Witcher, upon whether we can come to an arrangement of sorts." Geralt sighed. There it was, he thought, an appearance of the family trade. What would they be after for this chance? For her resurrection. The impossible, no doubt. Perhaps the moon, or a scale from a two-thousand-year-old golden dragon born under a full moon. Maybe they'd want ancient books written in elvish blood from before the conjunction of spheres or the hearts of thirty virgin princesses, each cut on the eve of their 18th year. "No, nothing quite like that," said O'Gurye through his grin. "It is your service which I wish to acquire and Cirilla's too. You see, O'Dimm has wronged us both Master Witcher, and we cannot abide that. Unlikely as it might appear, we share a common desire, to watch the Man of Glass shatter.

"When he appeared to you in Thanedd and took the soul of Lady Yennefer, our brother O'Dimm broke many of the rules sacred to our family. Sanctions that we created because the laws of mother nature are nothing to us. Our power is great but it cannot be limitless, the universe needs equilibrium and so we made laws to ensure that it would be maintained while we did our trade. The rules he broke I am not a liberty to say, but this I can tell you. You earned your freedom from O'Dimm when you solved his riddle and thus he had no right to take revenge against you directly or by way of proxy. Our brother did not take your fiance's soul, he stole it. It is this lack of true ownership which will allow us to restore her...when the conditions have been met."

O'Gurye paused, letting his words hang in the still air of the lonely graveyard. Geralt was still watching the tree, its bark as familiar as the scars upon his coarse skin. Many long hours he'd spent up here. It was one of the places where he felt closest to Yennefer, the tree almost like a shrine to her, not that he was a religious man. There was no place for it in the Kaer Morhen curriculum. Geralt let his hand drop from the tree and turned to the merchant. He was afraid of the price the man would name. There was too much he was willing to bargain and O'Gurye knew he was eager to buy.

"What's your price?" the Witcher asked solemnly.

"It's more of an arrangement, actually," answered Un Wake. She was kneeling in front of Yennefer's gravestone with a number of blossoms and flowers in hand. She'd placed a dozen around the base of the stone and completed the circle as he watched her. Geralt saw Ciri eyeing her with a venomous look which eased only slightly when the woman backed away from Yennefer's stone. "Gaunter O'Dimm must be held accountable for his actions and though a hearing he shall have, the verdict is already set in stone. He'll bother no mortal until the end of time when we've processed him, we take care of our troublemakers Master Witcher, rest assured of that. However, though his punishment we can administer, neither O'Gurye or I nor any Mirror can bring him to justice. Our brother has played the rules well, hiding behind them so that we cannot size him. We are all prohibited from entering his Realm of Glass, which he where he hides, and we cannot return Yennefers soul until his hearing has passed. But we too know the rules of our trade, while you grieved we prepared, and that's where you mortals come in. We shall send you, or rather your souls, to fetch us O'Dimm. Be our proxies and you can help us bring Yennefer back.

"Before you pursue any questions, Lady Ciri, let me assure you there is no hidden price," said Mistress Mirror, a bushy eyebrow raised at the other woman and a hint of amusement playing in her otherwise dead eyes. Ciri scoffed and deepened her scowl. Geralt caught her eye and shook his head gently. He didn't want a fight. "Getting to Master Mirror will be the sole price, and a necessary step for us to return Yennefer. It will be no easy task, the perils that await in his Realm are unknown to all but the souls that reside there, your mother included. But O'Dimm chose the Witcher because he is rather capable of achieving the impossible, a trait that you too have acquired Lady Ciri. The obstacles you'll face will test you in ways you couldn't comprehend, and while we can protect and guarantee your lives, your sanity is out of our hands." As she finished talking, O'Gurye reached into one of his satchels and pulled out a glass ball. There was smoke moving inside it. He threw it to his sister who caught it with one hand and balanced it on the tips of her fingers. "Master Witcher, Zireael, do we have a deal?"

The glass ball fell to the floor as Un Wake tipped her hand forwards. It rolled towards Geralt and Ciri, stopping abruptly after a few seconds. Geralt saw cracks forming across the glass and heard it shatter, releasing a burst of light that blinded him. Someone started to scream. Blinking the stars from his eyes, Geralt looked upon the figure lying where once the ball had been. Their entire person looked to be made of glass, uncannily lifelike, with coloured smoke filling the inside. Yennefer was curled up in a tight ball with her arms wrapped around her, blood soaking the sleeves of her dress as her hands dug into the soft flesh on her shoulder. She was deathly pale, contrasting intensely with the mess of raven curls spilling across her face. Though lying at his feet, Yennefer's scream sounded distant and unending, unhalted by an intake of breath.

"Yen..." Geralt knelt beside her and reached out to take her hand. His flesh passed through her body, sending several wisps of smoke into the air. "Yen," he called again. She didn't react.

"Mother... Mother, we're here. Mother, please say something." Yennefer didn't respond to Ciri's voice or touch either. She was still alone; trapped; helpless.

Geralt looked at Ciri, and she nodded. "We agree," he said.

"Splendid," Un Wake chortled. Stooping over, she held out her hand to the Witcher. He eyed it for a second, and then they shook. Unlike before, with O'Dimm, no pain or mark that followed the agreement, but Geralt still knew that there was no going back now. "As a gesture of goodwill and a sign of our new-founded alliance, take these few seconds with Yennefer. Use them wisely." Releasing his hand Un Wake bought hers together, her clap booming in his hears.

Yennefer's screams became sharper and louder and then stopped abruptly, replaced by heavy, laboured breathing choked with tears. Her body became more solid but maintained a slightly translucent quality, as though someone had held a piece of paper up to the sun and seen the faint outline of their hand on the other side. Geralt could smell the fresh blood running down her arms and between her legs. She was shaking uncontrollably, and crying openly and plentifully. Her body emanated an unnatural cold that made his hairs stand on end. Yennefer looked as fragile as glass.

"Yen," he whispered softly. The Sorceress whimpered unexpectedly and drew her head and knees closer together, shrinking herself further. Geralt reached for her hand, holding her clammy fingers for the briefest second as she recoiled violently and moaned, clutching her stomach with one hand.

"Mother, can you hear us?" asked Ciri in a muted tone.

Yennefer didn't react at all this time, ignoring them both completely. She didn't believe they were real, Geralt knew it somehow. He needed her to look at him, perhaps then she'd understand that it was them and not O'Dimm watching over her. He made a quick grab for her wrists before turning the Sorceress onto her back and pinning her to the floor, expecting her to struggle; she didn't. Not at all, Yennefer only moaned pitifully. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot when he looked into them, wet with the tears streaming down her bruised face. The look upon her face was one he'd only ever seen within his nightmares; she was terrified.

"Yen, it's Geralt. I'm here, I'm here Yen." He let go of her wrists and raised a hand to her face, catching a tear with his fingers and bushing it away. Lightly he pressed his palm and fingers against her cheek and though she still flinched, inhaling sharply, she eased back against his touch. "I'm coming for you, I promise. I'm bringing you home."

"We both are," Ciri murmured. Yennefer's eyes snapped to her face and she gasped.

"No…" she croaked. Yennefer screwed up her eyes and pressed her lips together and her stomach muscles clenched and her body shivered. "Not safe…you can't…please..."

"I promised I wouldn't leave you Yen, we're-"

"Begone!"

Geralt felt someone grab him by the collar of his shirt and throw him backwards. Landing hard on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs, Geralt coughed and spluttered. Though his muscles protested the Witcher hurridly sprang to his feet. Yennefer cried in anguish as O'Dimm reached down and seized her hair, pulling her onto her feet. Her legs buckled almost instantly. Still holding a fistful of her raven's locks, he pulled Yennefer's arm behind her back and twisted it. Blood dripped from her dry lips as she bit down on them, swallowing another cry, but she couldn't stop her eyes from watering.

"Did you hear that my dear little soul, your fiance and daughter are coming to save you," Master Mirror hummed into her ear, twisting her head. Geralt saw her claw the back of the hand holding her head, the result of which was O'Dimm twisting her arm further, incapacitating her with the pain it caused. "Please don't make this any harder my dear, or you - Witcher." The step Geralt had taken towards Gaunter he took back, moving to where he had fallen. O'Dimm smiled at him and loosened his hold on Yennefer's arm. "We'll be sure to put on a good show for you when you arrive. Come, dear Yenna, let us practice. We must be sure to test how many different ways you can stream before the visit." Looking pointedly at Geralt, the man of Glass started stepping away, half carrying Yennefer with him and her legs wobbled and shook. She started to fade, becoming more transparent with each step.

"I love you," Geralt called after her. The Sorceress gave him a weak smile and vanished.

"Though time is something we have in abundance, I dare say you'd rather get to your beloved as soon as possible. So come, there is still much to discuss and business such as this should not be conducted in the open air," said O'Gurye and, clapping his hands in unison with his sister, the world began to move again. The two merchants started off down the hill and towards the main house.

"Wait," the Witcher shouted. "Where is she? Yen, her body."

"You needn't look very far, Master Witcher, she rests exactly where she should. In your home."

* * *

Haruki Murakami, Chapter 3: Memories

"Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It's like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven't seen in a long time."

* * *

Hey there guys, hope you enjoyed the latest chapter, sorry for all the exposition, I hope everything here makes sense.

I'm slowly beginning to weave my own ideas about the mysterious Gaunter O'Dimm, one of those ideas being that he is very much not alone in the universe. Considering all the many worlds out there, I always thought that there would be more than one Mirror, that they might each have certain, designated worlds to control and that because of this they must have some sort of order. If you have any questions about my interpretation or don't understand something feel free to ask. Also,FYI, Bodas O'Gurye is an acronym for Bóg, which is polish for God, and Dika Un Wake is an acronym for Duw, which is welsh for God.

There will be a nice bit of fluff next chapter and the next couple of chapters are all looking to be rather slow as well, but enjoy this calm pace because shit will hit the fan later on.

See you in two weeks!


	3. Memories

Haruki Murakami: **Chapter 3,** Memories

"Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It's like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven't seen in a long time."

* * *

"Do you think he'll be better this year?" asked Triss quietly as she and Nenneke walked through Corvo Bianco's courtyard to visit Geralt and Ciri as they did each year. The older woman sighed heavily before answering.

"I know not. I have prayed for him each day, asking Melitele to help ease his torment, to give them both some respite but there is only so much that we can do to help him when he refuses, rather dangerously, not to relinquish any guilt." There was a short silence. She sighed again. "I was hoping that today we might, at last, encourage him to clean away some of her belongings."

"There's no point. He won't," said Triss absentmindedly before she could stop herself. The priestess chuckled sadly.

"Unfortunately, I don't doubt that but still, for his sake, for Yennefer's, we must try."

What she said was true. Every time Triss had been to visit in these past two years, nothing about the house had changed. Yennefer's presence was still there, as clear as it had been before she died. There was no harm in the paintings hung around the house which Yennefer and Geralt had acquired over the years, it was a marvellous collection after all, it was the other things that mattered.

The black and white clothes that still hung in the wardrobe, the cosmetics littered on the dresser, the oils and scents in the bathhouse, the small stool in the library, the books and tomes of magic on the shelves, the ever-present smell of lilac and gooseberries that clung to every part of the estate, heaviest under the tree. All a constant reminder of what he had lost, or more precisely of what was now completely out of his reach, trapped in God knows where forever. Geralt may have said his goodbyes at the funeral but he was still far from moving on, from both Yennefer and from his own guilt.

"You're right," whispered the Sorceress, looking up from the cobblestone to look at Nenneke's kind face. "I will speak to him as well, and to Ciri."

We need to stop him now, before he gets himself killed, she said to herself, unable to voice the fears out loud, the one thing everyone had been avoiding talking about.

"Thank you."

They continued to amble along in silence, Triss supporting the older woman by the arm. Just when they were about to move past the main house Triss stopped dead on the spot lightly tugging Nenneke's arm.

"What is it?" she inquired looking first at Triss, then squinting in the direction she was looking, brow knitted in a frown.

Geralt and Ciri were taking long-legged strides towards them, two unknown figures jauntily trailing behind them. As the pair approached neither acknowledged their presence but rushed past, their faces completely deadpan, eyes set unblinkingly ahead as they darted into the house without even a fleeting glance cast in their direction.

"What's going on?" said Triss nervously, wrapping an arm around her chest and rubbing the top of her arm as she looked at the door which was still swinging, back and forth, on its hinges.

"A family reunion of sorts, "said the woman plainly as she and the man strode past, hands clasped behind their backs as they stood on either side of the door like gatekeepers.

"Come, you should join them." He said jovially, swinging his arm out to push the door wide open for them, bowing them inside with a haughty smile tugging at his lips. "Surely you wish to see dear Lady Yennefer again."

* * *

Geralt took the stairs two, three, four at a time as he bounded upstairs in only a few seconds. His ingrained self-discipline was all but lost in wake of the unalienable apprehension sitting prominently in his mind. It compelled all other sensations and thoughts into the dark until all that remained of his conscience was the burning need to open the bedroom door and gaze his eyes on whichever sight lay before him.

Yet, despite this urge to go inside, the desperate longing to feed and resolve his dread, he hesitated at the foot of the door. Despite everything, he stopped. Heavy hands rested against the polished wood, his forehead pressed against its smooth surface as his mind was at once overwhelmed by the same memories which had kept him at bay for two years. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gently shook his head as though trying to dislodge the tethers holding him back.

Despite everything, he stopped at the door, stuck on the threshold indefinitely. Despite everything, he raised his hands and seized the smooth silver handle in one hand. He turned it around until the door clicked open. He pushed the door asunder and walked over the threshold for the first time in two years as caprice took him over and at last renewed the will he'd lost.

He walked into the master bedroom unprepared to meet the reality inside which would ultimately be the master of his fate.

* * *

 _Yennefer was already lounging in bed in a scandalous piece of lingerie when Geralt walked into their room. The lascivious sight which greeted his eyes unnaturally accelerated his movements as he propped his swords up against the bed and undressed with incredible speed before slipping under the thin blanket beside her, winding his arms around her body and drawing her closer until their bodies were perfectly entwined together._

 _He inhaled a deep breath of lilac and gooseberries, sighing with content as he focused his acute senses on her smell, her touch, drowning out every other unimportant detail about the world. He felt Yennefer laughing softly as she lay partly across his chest, head against his shoulder. Geralt was sure she knew what he was doing; he'd explained it time and time again, but nevertheless, she always seemed to find it amusing. As romantic as the gesture was it was still difficult not to equate it with the image of a wolf sniffing at the open air to catch a scent and then homing in, senses blind to everything else but that smell. At least, that's what she'd told him._

 _Geralt had always had an exceptional connection with Yennefer's smell, with the mix of her perfume, her blood, her body, his own scent upon her skin, to him, it was intoxicating. He could smell Yennefer for miles away, he could tell exactly where she was, he could tell where she had been, he could smell the apple juice clinging to her lips, he could tell if she'd spent the day walking amongst the vines or sitting in the flower garden, at times he even got an inclination about how she was feeling just from her scent. Nothing, not even time, could hide it from his senses. He was addicted. He didn't just want it, he needed it. He inhaled again. She laughed again._

 _"Satisfied?" She asked with amusement, running delicate fingers down his arm, her hand intertwining with one of his which was wrapped protectively around her waist._

 _He didn't comment, instead he gently took the hand she had placed on his chest and brought it to his mouth, brushing several tender kisses on her smooth skin from the back of her hand to her fingers. She sighed softly, letting him gently lower her hand back down. It had become a new, unspoken gesture of affection between them, ever since he'd slipped the engagement ring on her finger._

 _It was a spectacular sight. Memorizing. A small diamond, violet amethyst and black pearl were embedded in the ring on either side of a beautiful silver star with a diamond at its centre. He regretted that such a sight had taken so long to come to life. They'd taken a while to get there, but at least they'd managed it at last._

 _"Did you manage to find the ruin?" Asked Yennefer._

 _"Yes." He replied, carefully twisting a stray lock of raven-hair around his fingers._

 _"Good. As soon as we return from Thanedd, I want to see it Geralt," she said drowsily, wriggling around in his arms to make herself more comfortable settling back down only once she had found the perfect position, drawing the blanket back over herself so that only her shoulders and head were visible._

 _"Think this will be the one, Yen?"_

 _"Who knows…if it isn't, well, we'll just keep looking until we find it, it can't hide from us forever."_

 _They lay there for a moment more, drawn away into their own thoughts by the lethargic heat and silence which had descended over them like the early morning mist that clung to Kaer Morhen._

 _"I want it to be breath-taking, Geralt," Yennefer said in a hushed tone, words tinted with drowsiness, the discourse of a mind drifting away into abeyance. "I want to fall in love with it, I want it to be...perfect. Everything has to be perfect. Do you understand, Geralt?"_

 _"I do, Yen."_

 _"Good. We've worked too hard for this, waited too long, I'll be damned if the wedding isn't perfect."_

 _"A wedding where I get to take you as my wife, nothing could be more perfect."_

 _She laughed._

 _"True enough Geralt, true enough."_

 _The Witcher was still awake by the time Yennefer had fallen asleep, locks cascading over her face and shoulders, spilling onto his bare chest, tickling him pleasantly. He listened to the hypnotizing sound of her heart, its rhythm was a lullaby to which he had little resistance._

 _The couple slept peacefully that night, dreaming of the ruin they would explore with the hopes of finding what they wished for, of a long-forgotten piece of architecture made from intrinsically carved stone now overrun by nature, a waterfall crashing down onto the stone creating a stream which cut through the ruin giving life to plants which crawled up the walls. They wished for a place of unimaginable beauty, because only such a place was befitting of such a momentous occasion._

 _Geralt slept well, until the nightmare, the unnatural vision abruptly pulling him from his slumber, images of flowers, decay, screaming, pain, water, mirrors and a reflection, a reflection of something familiar, yet…unknown._

 _He pushed the sense of dread aside, the feelings all but fading away overnight as the dream was lost to him. Little did he know that this augury was so soon to come to fruition, on the path to Thanedd, no less._

 _That he would never get to explore those ruins with his beloved._

* * *

The room was precisely as he remembered it. The curtains were drawn wide open to let in the morning light so they could bask in its rays as they finished packing the last few essentials before setting off. There were several candles standing on the bedside tables, all showing various degrees of use. The tantalizing portrait of himself and the slain griffin was hung on the wall opposite the bed beside an equally titillating picture of Yennefer lying on the back of a white unicorn with nothing but a piece of black cloth draped expertly around her body. It was immaculately clean. Nothing was out of place. Everything was as it should be, light, paintings, flowers, books, candles and, most importantly, Yennefer lying on the bed awaiting him.

"Yen…" Said Geralt in barely a whisper, starved for air as he gasped involuntarily. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to see but he knew that this was most certainly not it. Not after two years…

It was only when Ciri impatiently pushed her way past him did the Witcher realise he'd be petrified, the complex and surreal bundle of feelings were frying his senses and made him decrepit.

Desperately Ciri fought her way into the room, ungainly trying to squeeze past his bulking form, stumbling albeit in her urgency. As her eyes swept up from the floor he heard her gasp aloud, hands coming up to cover her mouth as she stared wide-eyed at the bed, the sight claiming yet another victim as she became rooted to the spot.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Don't just stand there like lemons, go closer, feast your starved eyes on her beauty." Said one of the Mirrors from somewhere out in the foyer behind them, the pair chuckling as they observed.

The voice grated on his nerves in a way that no other sound could, plucking him from his stupor, from this out of body experience, instantly. Yet he was still overpowered, unable to exert any control over his body. He needed to focus, to drown out every other sensation so he could will his body forward. So, he closed his eyes and inhaled.

It was faint, so very faint. But it was there, he was sure it was.

As the drug consumed his senses something sparked in the back of his mind and he could practically feel the blood rushing back into his body, making his flesh feel once more like his own and less like the prison it had become. He took a step forward.

Geralt brushed past Ciri as he went deeper into the room. She wobbled slightly on the spot but didn't move forwards with him.

Geralt continued to tread the familiar path towards the bed. One step, two steps, three steps closer. He could see the figure more clearly now. A woman, relatively small in stature, was lying on the bed completely insensate.

She was wearing an elegant black dress which hung off her shoulders revealing her slender neck. It had a modestly plunging neckline and hugged her thin frame tightly. A small brown belt with silver studs accentuated her waist. Underneath the belt the soft black material, which reached down to her bare feet, parted as though someone had cut out some of the fabric to unveil the luxurious white silk hidden beneath which covered her upper thigh, the rest of her leg completely bare. Dark sleeves clung to the top of her arm, eventually opening out into long, loose sleeves which were draped over her stomach as her hands rested, clasped together, on her midriff. The entire dress was wonderfully embroidered with subtle silver-white thread. An obsidian star coated with tiny diamonds was suspended from a black choker around her neck and raven-locks tumbled down her shoulders and onto the bed. She was memorising.

Eyes fixed squarely on her, he moved four steps, five steps, six steps closer until his knees were practically touching the edge of the bed. And he just stood there, towering over the woman. Then he sat down.

The bed sagged slightly under his weight as he sat beside her. He looked at her face, marvelled at how blissfully beautiful it was, possibly even more hypnotizingly beautiful than he remembered. As impossible as that seemed.

Carefully he reached out towards her, then he hesitated, hand hovering over her body for a split second before he gently took her hand. Her skin was pale, flawless and impossibly smooth to touch, but it was also unnaturally cold, just as it had been when he last held her in his arms.

"Geralt…is, is it…" Said Ciri quietly, her unfinished question hanging in the air like a bad smell.

He didn't answer at first. He wasn't sure if he could. He wanted to say yes, but even now he wasn't sure he could believe his own conviction. Not that he didn't want to, but…It has been two years, could this possibly be true? Geralt let out a deep breath, closed his eyes, and inhaled again.

O God, how he had missed that smell.

It wrapped itself around him like a blanket, cocooning him with its comforting familiarity. He smelt ever small, minute little fragrance in it, not just the perfume, the same smell that hung around the tree they'd planted for her, but her, it smelt of her, something that no amount of magic had been able to replicate, when it came to Yennefer's scent, nothing could fool his senses. He knew now, without a doubt, that it was Yennefer.

"Yes," he said opening his eyes and turning around to face Ciri who was still standing just in front of the door. "Yes, Ciri, it's Yen."

He heard her make an indistinguishable sound somewhere between a sob and a cry of relief as she walked up to the bed trying to blink back tears and failing, several jewels of water trailing down her face from her bleary eyes.

"Mother." She sobbed gradually lowering herself onto the top end of the bed. "Oh God…it really is her…it really is…Mother…"

Geralt and Ciri looked up from the bed, staring indifferently at each other. Neither knew what to say, how to react. All they could do was what seemed right.

They embraced on the bed beside their lost beloved, who, at last, didn't seem so out of reach.

* * *

C.S. Lewis, **Chapter 4: Silence**

"I have learned now that while those who speak about one's miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more."

* * *

Notes:

Hello, my lovely readers, hope you enjoyed chapter 3. The feeeeeeels! Rather a lot of fluff and angst, I had a lot of fun writing this, welled up a little by. Did it move you as much as it moved me?

The next couple of chapters are looking to be just as slow as this, don't expect any real pace until around chapter 10 (sorry!) but there will be a lot going on later, that's for certain.

As always feel free to leave a comment or PM me anytime (here or on Tumblr under the same name) I absolutely love hearing from you guys and would love to have more interaction. Over on my Tumblr I do sometimes do writer's art thing posts, so that's a good opportunity to ask me questions about my writing and the story, if you're interested.

Big thanks to daisyofgalaxy11 for the beta reading! Go check out her stories: ? Until next time guys – Eileniessa xx


	4. Silence

**[UPDATED - first scene rewritten and new plot content added to it]**

* * *

C.S. Lewis, Chapter 4: Silence

"I have learned now that while those who speak about one's miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more."

* * *

Silence rested heavily upon Ciri's shoulders, settling in the bedroom like a smog. Sitting at the foot of the bed on which Yennefer's body rested, she watched the others, Nenneke and Triss in particular, processing this most unexpected situation. She sighed. Though the sound was familiar to her, the silence was still greatly upsetting. There had been much of it following Yennefer's death, all the uncomfortable kind, not that of blissful memory or content. It offered too tempting an opportunity to lose oneself within dark and twisting thoughts, it had ensnared Geralt in such a way right now and had done before. There was a lot of silence between them. It had no right to be there, and she didn't want it present, but Ciri knew of no way to banish it. It had crept between them in Yennefer's absence and rooted itself deeply.

"This is a lot to take in," Nenneke mused almost a half hour after they had entered the master bedroom. With she and Geralt unable to speak, enamoured by Yennefer's sudden appearance, the Mirrors had repeated the nature and content of the deal to Triss and the Priestess.

"Had you no warning from your Goddess that we would come? Perhaps she doesn't like to speak of miracles she hadn't a hand in creating; it would explain the silence," Mistress Mirror jeered. Both she and Master Mirror were standing by the balcony with books in hand, those from Yennefer's bookshelf. "Enough," she snapped the book shut and dropped it onto a nearby armchair, "save your brooding for another time, there are things that must now be attended to."

"Such as?" Geralt asked gruffly.

"Why, questions of course."

The Mirrors swept their eyes around the room, spending time upon each person's face. Ciri dropped her eyes to her hands and thought. What O'Gurye said was true, they'd excepted the deal but clarification was still needed. They'd rushed in without knowing many of the fine details. She wished that the Mirrors would simply tell them what it was they thought Geralt and she ought to know, but that would perhaps be too plain and simple for their taste. They reminded her an awful lot of Philippa.

"How do we enter O'Dimm's Realm?" Geralt asked, taking his eyes off Yennefer's face for perhaps the first time to look at the merchants. He was holding his wedding ring tightly in the palm of his hand, the chain slipping through his fingers. Ciri wondered where Yennefer's was, she was wearing her choker and engagement ring, but the wedding band Ciri had never seen.

"My sister and I will guide your souls there and preserve your bodies until you can return to them, as we have with Lady Yennefer's," he gestured to the woman on the bed. If not for the cold touch her skin and the stillness of her chest, it would have been easy to think she was alive and only sleeping. A part of Ciri suggested that Yennefer might be, that maybe she'd fallen asleep while watching over the Sorceress, who'd fallen sick from performing an incomplete spell, and her frightful imagination had concocted this nightmare. But it was awfully long and painful to be unreal. "We cannot, however, physically protect them. O'Dimm cannot come here in person, for his liberty would swiftly be seized, but there is nothing to stop him from persuading mortals to destroy your vessels. They'll need guarding, a soul cannot survive in a mortally wounded body nor in bodies from whence it did not come."

"What about protecting our souls? Is there anything to prevent O'Dimm from destroying them or forcing us out of his Realm?" Ciri asked. She glared at Un Wake when she chuckled before answering. The woman was sitting cross-legged upon the dressing table - Yennefer's dressing table - fingering the cosmetics that had been lying there undisturbed for two years. The lack of care and respect that the Mirrors showed for Yennefer's memory was infuriating in itself, and even more so because of the fact that Ciri knew she shouldn't bite. She had more to lose than to gain by offending them.

"It is impossible to destroy a soul. If O'Dimm wanted rid of yours he would have to send it to the beyond, or to the mortal plain. However, even this he cannot do for as of this day your souls belong to us, and thus it is within our power to ensure that he cannot force you out of the Realm of Glass or move you to where he wishes. And rest assured that, whether you succeed or not, your souls are not forfeit. We will relinquish our hold on them however this ends."

Ciri cursed under her breath. So much for no hidden details, she thought bitterly. But of course, it was nothing to worry about. It was only her very soul after all. We use did she have for it? Ciri took a long, slow breath. When she thought about it, even knowing she'd be signing her soul away wouldn't have changed the outcome of their meeting. It was an uncomfortable thought knowing that her soul was no longer wholly under her ownership, but Yennefer hadn't any grasp on hers. Ciri could put up with sharing hers for a bit if it meant giving Yennefer's freedom back to her.

There were a couple of moments silence, she tried to think of another detail that needed covering. "Are only Geralt and I to go?" O'Gurye, who had been wiping a strikingly red apple on his shirt shook his head without making eye contact. He took a bite of the fruit, putting up a hand to signal that he would elaborate, but at his own pace.

"You needn't be. There are several other proxies we have in mind, Triss is one. Anyone with a sufficiently strong connection to Yennefer, which is the means by which we will guide you to Realms, we can send. There are few with this bond; few indeed."

"And how long will it take?"

"We cannot say, for two main reasons. Firstly, as mentioned, we've no information on the path which leads to O'Dimm. Second, time behaves differently there, there isn't a direct translation. An hour for an hour, so to say."

"The path to O'Dimm, what do you mean by that?" Geralt asked.

"This is an excellent question, a wonderful choice. What we mean is that we know not the journey you must take to reach the centre of his Realm, but that go there you must. For us to catch O'Dimm, and to then restore Lady Yennefer, you must severe for all eternity the connection our brother has to his source of power. The Realm of Glass. Just as Lady Ciri draws power from her blood, and Witchers and Magicians from the elements, we Mirrors draft our powers from our Realms, they are an extension of ourselves, to put in plainly. Within the heart of the Realm of glass stands a black throne from where O'Dimm can watch and command the torment of all the souls he hath bargained for. To write his weakness upon it will make it shatter, and the Realm of Glass will be a part of him no more. Without access to the seat of his power, we can deal with him. The journey to the black throne will teach you the word, for we cannot reveal it, only assure you that it is there and that it is not physical in nature."

Ciri struggled to fit all the information together. Though it was true that even the fiercest of creatures, and the kindest of men, had their flaws, she could not bring to mind that which hindered O'Dimm. What weakness could he have? His pride perhaps? No. What O'Gurye had said meant she hadn't seen it yet or rather hadn't noticed what it was. That they'd have to think upon it. Creatures in the bestiary were studied for decades before words of their defeat could be written for other Witcher to follow. It was the same case here. O'Dimm was something they had to study and his weakness found, not shown.

Occupied with her own thoughts, it took Ciri a moment to notice that the silence had returned. Geralt was looking at the wall with a blank stare and Triss had her head in her hands; she hadn't said anything since entering the house. And Nenneke...Nenneke was watching her, smiling faintly when she caught her eye. Ciri supposed that it was nice to have faith in times like this. The Gods always provided an explanation when there was no logic to fall upon.

"If there is nothing else to say then we must regrettably take your leave for a while," Un Wake spoke up. Swinging her legs forwards she jumped down from the dressing table, nodding towards her brother as he held open the bedroom door for her. "Might we suggest that you begin making preparations for the journey forthwith. There is much to be done. We will meet here against in four weeks' time, have your allies ready and waiting, Master Geralt," she said over her shoulder. Pausing for a second, the Mirrors cast their eyes over the room and began walking into the corridor.

"Wait." Geralt got to his feet carefully, trying his best not to disturb the bed with his movement. He moved towards the open door which now hid the merchants from Ciri's gaze. "There's something else I want - need - to know. Why? Why did O'Dimm break the rules? What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing at all. You simply had bad luck. It is unspeakable for one of us to be bested by a mortal. We would expect only the elders among us had ever suffered such an embarrassing defeat. But O'Dimm is one of our youngest and he has fallen twice already, with you striking the second blow. He always felt the need to prove himself and took deals and bets that many of us would avoid for they are too complicated and troublesome. He has paid for it now. You were the final straw for our little brother, Master Witcher, but you've only your luck to blame for it. You followed the rules, Yennefer's suffering is more on our hands, than on yours."

* * *

Geralt slipped onto the balcony as soon as the two merchants had left. He needed some fresh air because the suffocating ambiance of the bedroom was threatening to snuff out the minute flame which had reignited inside him after all these years. The first tiny kindle of hope which shone like a little beacon at the end of a long, dark and twisting tunnel that he had once perceived, until this morning, to be endless. Yet, it was only a small light. Even after all he had heard, all he had seen, Geralt was fearful to let it grow.

He'd spent two years without her, in four weeks, he might be bringing her home.

The warm Toussaint sun began to soak into his skin as he leant against the smooth stone balcony, standing parallel to the house so as to be able to lose himself in the sight of the estate around him without having to sacrifice his view of Yennefer resting on their bed.

He tried to entangle himself in some piece of normal reality, watching, as they had once done together under the sun and under the stars, the world go by. Enjoying this boring luxury which they could at long last afford.

He'd lost that pleasure two years ago. He couldn't stand to do anything that reminded him of her, of what he had lost, of who he had killed… To see bitter sweet memories and recollections manifest before him like an ethereal spectre doomed to eternally haunt his mind's eye as he was forced to watch her relaxing on the sun lounger which overlooked the vineyard, locks tumbling artistically down her fair and perfect skin. Her beauty a spectacle that no artist could even dream of replicating nor that any priestess would dare to compare to the beauty of their Goddess for fear of putting their mistress to shame.

He cursed his retentive memory…

* * *

 _She was sitting gracefully on the left side of the balcony, her legs crossed and her body facing towards the bedroom as she looked out over the estate. Lazily she bought the silver goblet to her lips, indulging herself in a slow, deliberate sip of red wine. Her raven hair shimmered in the sunlight, dazzling him like little stars reflected_ of _the surface of a calm, serene lake in the pitch black of night._

 _"Enjoying the sights are we, Geralt?" said Yennefer in an amused tone, violet eyes catching his own as she turned her head. He gave her a sly smile._

 _"_ Hmmmm _. It's so easy to lose yourself in its beauty."_

 _She laughed softly, rewarding his candid compliment with a smile and a sweet kiss as he strode over, wrapping his arms around her, moulding his body to hers._

 _And they sat like that for a while, just watching, listening and making small talk, and in Geralt's case, making awkwardly charming compliments to fill the quiet hours. Boring, perhaps. But the truth was, they didn't need anything else_.

* * *

Ciri watched him dolefully from her spot beside her Mother on the bed, saw him physically and mentally withdraw himself from the external world around him, from those within it, to drown himself in his internal reality which none could either see nor enter. Not anymore. He'd built barriers around himself, obstacles which had never before stood in her way, they made it impossible to reach him. They made her too afraid to try.

"You should talk to him, Ciri." Said Nenneke kindly, closely watching her face as she cast her eyes away from the Witcher who had, at present, ceased to exist outside the confines of his own mind.

"Why, Nenneke? there's no point. He won't listen, nor will he talk, he never talks. Not about Mother, not about himself. Not anymore."

Even with her advanced years, Nenneke knew there was no mistaking the sorrow dampening Ciri's every word. As she held the young woman's gaze and listened she became immensely saddened by how mature she'd grown. She knew it was out of necessity, not choice. Ciri deserved to be young, she deserved that more than anyone. So many carefree years had been snatched from her hands, first the war, then the hunt, now it was the court. But more than anything, it had been Yennefer. When she had left, so had the last window Ciri had to regain any lost time, all that lost happiness.

"I know it's not been easy, Ciri. You've grown up faster than any child should and lost more than most. But he needs you, Ciri. If this doesn't work out…" She hesitated for a moment but decided to press on. "…You might lose Geralt as well."

Ciri looked at her for a moment longer but said nothing. After a couple of seconds her eyes shifted onto the figure leaning against the balcony, eyes staring dead ahead never once flickering in her direction.

She wanted to help, truly she did. But she'd grown tired of trying, and she had tried. Every hour that wasn't spent in the court, studying or sleeping she'd spent with him. She'd been there for him. It had all felt so extraordinarily strange, how fate had reversed their roles. He was no longer the man who could provide a steady shoulder for her to cry on, to tell her that everything was going to be alright. He never said that, not now, because he didn't believe it. Geralt never lied to make her feel better. Never.

Over these two years she had found less and less comfort by his side when once she had always been so sure of finding it there, awaiting her. He still tried, he still cared, the Witcher had not vanished from her side. But the Geralt she once knew, had. And it scared her. She dreaded to think what might lie behind the mask and barriers he had erected until eventually this fear overwhelmed her. Since then, she's stopped trying to look.

* * *

Nenneke heard Ciri sigh deeply and then she said something very quietly, so quietly, in fact, that Nenneke couldn't make out her words. She looked to Triss for help, but immediately looked away. A single tear was falling down the Sorceress' rosy cheek. She didn't want to intrude.

But even with her head lowered to the floor, she caught the Priestess' gaze out of the corner of her eye and slowly began to raise up her head. It looked as though even this small movement required phenomenal strength.

"She said-" Triss began, in an unusually incoherent voice, choking on her words as they fell from her lips. "She said, it's too, too late. She's already lost him. She's lost them both."

* * *

Stephanie Perkins, Anna and the French Kiss - Chapter 5, Home

"For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home."

* * *

Hi guys, hope all is well and that you liked this chapter. I'm sorry for the feels! :'( There will be some nice fluff next chapter though which should make up for it (at least I hope so). Again, sorry this is slow, but I didn't want to plunge right into chaos, firstly because it wouldn't feel right to me to just ignore the emotional and mental impact these events have on our heroes but also because I wanted to try something new. Things do begin to happen in chapter 7 though so not too long now.

Please, please, please feel free to comment and please, please, please drop me asks on Tumblr (Eileniessa or Eileniessa's Creative Blog) I would really love to have more interaction with readers and basically really just want to talk about this story :P

Thank you so much for DaisyofGalaxy for being my beta reader and for all your help and support, go check her out on here and on Tumblr.

Until next time guys! xx


	5. Home

Stephanie Perkins, _Anna and the French Kiss_ – **Chapter 5, Home**

"For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home."

* * *

Geralt didn't speak on the matter for the rest of the day, nor did anyone else, they knew it was pointless to begin making plans until they'd had time to digest this turn of events. In the space of that morning, everything they knew had been turned on its head and nobody quite knew what to make of it. And so, they went their separate ways.

He watched as Nenneke informed Basil of what had happened. His wide eyes and sharp intake of breath was a strong reminder of just how strange things had become. Together they pottered around the estate, making sure everything was in order and that there was plenty of food lining the table. And, of course, the Archpriestess prayed for them. She prayed for them all, feverishly.

Eventually, after waking from her stupor, Triss rose to her feet. He heard her ask Ciri to accompany her on a ride. The young woman accepted, and so they saddled their horses and set out with a bag full of food. They were gone for hours but he hardly noticed. By late afternoon, the Sorceress returned to the house alone, locking herself away in the lab situated in the cellar for another several hours. Ciri did not return until early the next morning, quietly shutting herself away in her bedroom.

Geralt didn't leave the room. Not once. While his body screamed for release his mind was to weary to control it. He meditated and paced around the room, admiring the bed from many different angles but never being able to make himself comfortable. Too much in there reminded him of her. Reminded him of everything that would remain lost if this was a hoax or…if they failed.

As he changed position for a dozenth time, he spotted something sticking out from between the bed and the bedside table. He bent over in his seat, tugging the object free. It was a small, leather-bound book. Despite his better judgement, he opened it.

* * *

 _Just over a month since he had finished the contract for the Duchess of Toussaint, and since Yennefer had moved into Corvo Bianco, Geralt received a letter from a certain bard who was very eager to talk to the Witcher about this Beast of Beauclair and about a certain Anna Henrietta. Geralt found the proposition very agreeable, minus one small detail, they would have to meet outside of the Duchy, considering the death penalty hanging over Dandelion's head should he dare so much as set a toe in Toussaint._

 _So, the fact that his reunion with Dandelion, as well as Zoltan, would take him away from home from several days complicated matters, in his eyes at least, the same could not be said of his companions. Some things never changed. Geralt didn't want to leave Yennefer so soon. They still had a lot of lost time to make up for and the past month had been blissful. Perfect, he might dare to say, and he didn't want to ruin it._

 _Since they had reunited in White Orchid they'd had very little time together, even after the Wild Hunt had been defeated. The Sorceress has been helping their daughter, Ciri, settle into the Nilfgarrdian court, protecting her from ruthless politicians, such as Philippa Eilhart, while the young Empress was still gaining her footing and providing her with much needed motherly support._

 _He, on the other hand, had been trying to save money to whisk Yennefer away as soon as she was done, but one thing, as it always did, had led to another and before he knew it Geralt was up to his neck in trouble dealing with Gaunter O'Dimm and came out of the situation with very little to show for it. The Witcher wasn't sure whether his luck had gotten better or worse when the Duchess summoned him, but at least this contract had a greater promise of being very lucrative, if very dangerous. But his hopes were reassured and his spirits raised by the estate he received as a gesture of goodwill before the contract had been resolved._

 _Geralt had pondered over the letter for several hours as he took Roach for a ride around the vineyards before approaching Yennefer. To his surprise, she encouraged him to go. When he asked why, a little wounded, she had replied that it would give her a good opportunity to prepare a surprise for him; something she promised would more than help make up for some of those lost days. And so, he went, and when he returned he found the Sorceress waiting for him outside in a black silk nightgown, quickly taking his hand and pulling him inside and up the stairs._

 _He'd been so distracted by the sight of his raven-haired beauty walking up to him and embracing him in front of the house, occupying, as she always would, every inch of his senses and focus, that he hadn't noticed the changes until now. The top of the house was bigger. Significantly bigger. Currently, the pair were standing in a small foyer with a window in the wall opposite the stairs, a small bunch of flowers propped on a table beneath it, and a door on either side. Yennefer was leaning rather seductively against the door on the left, giving the Witcher only a few seconds to take it all in before beckoning him over, smiling bewitchingly at him as she opened the door, drawing him closer._

 _"Damn Yen." Was all he managed to say as they stepped into the room._

 _The luxurious master bed which had previously been located downstairs was now standing before him, in the middle of the room against the far wall, the two bedside tables next to it and above each hung a very suggestive painting, on one side Geralt and a slain Archgriffin, on the other Yennefer and a unicorn. Opposite the bed was a full-length mirror and a large dresser laden with cosmetics and a smaller mirror, all in plain view of anyone sitting on the bed, he loved watching her get ready and she was well aware of this, using it to her every advantage, not that he minded in the least._

 _On the wall beside the bed was a small window jutting out slightly from the wall, creating a small little nook big enough for two people to sit in, which was lined with comfortable looking cushions. The room was lit up by the sun seeping in through the windows covering the entirety of the wall facing out to the estate, the tendrils of light spreading over the soft carpet. On the other side of the windows, accessed by a glass door hidden amongst the panes, was a balcony overlooking the rest of Corvo Bianco, a small sofa and table upon it._

 _"Surprise…" Purred Yennefer in his ear, her hot breath tickling his flesh as he looked around. He felt her kiss the side of his neck before snaking her arms around his neck. "So, does it get the Witcher seal of approval?"_

 _"I love it, Yen." He said softly, swivelling around to face her and wrapping his arms around her waist._

 _"Hmmm, just the answer I was hoping for," she whispered, running a hand over his jaw. Despite her intimate demeanour, Geralt sensed that something was wrong. He waited patiently. "You realise, don't you, that this is the first house we've ever owned, together. Well, there was the Isle of Avalon but…" she sighed. "We've never been able to settle down before, but maybe now is our chance, at long last, which is why I don't want this place to feel like just another fairy-tale house in this ridiculously colourful Dutchy. It needs to feel like our home, Geralt, because I want you to feel happy here, like you belong here because you do want to be here, don't you? Is this enough, I- "_

 _He cut off her babble with a gentle kiss taking her by surprise. Slowly he pulled away, resting his forehead lightly against hers._

 _"Yen, wherever you are, I'm happy. I want this, an ordinary life with you. I want to lock us away in this house, in our home, safe from everything else outside. I love you, Yen." She sighed sweetly._

 _"And I you, my love."_

 _They kissed again in the doorframe before Geralt swept Yennefer off her feet, carrying her across the threshold._

 _A while later, still warm from lovemaking, the Enchantress hopped up into the small nook by the window, lying along the ledge cradled in the Witcher's embrace. He sat behind her, burying his head in her raven-locks and loving scent as she reached for the small leather-bound book, quill and inkpot perched on one of the cushions by their feet._

 _"Corvo Bianco is like a blank slate, if we're going to live out the rest of our lives here, then let's start to make this into a proper home. Any suggestions?"_

 _Dusk transformed into darkness as they sat by the window, Yennefer's small body cocooned in Geralt's warm touch as they made a list of features they would like to add to the estate and details for each one. A room for Ciri with a spectacular view, a library with a fireplace, a safe space outside for Yennefer to practice new spells and for Geralt to train, an armoury with plenty of weapon and armour stands, a bathhouse with both cold and warm water, an orchid to grow various fruit, a study with plenty of storage so Yennefer could start making her cosmetics again and a dining room and more guest rooms able to accommodate plenty of visitors._

 _After a few hours, they fell silent, minds drifting off into tranquil thoughts about the future. Yennefer was halfway through reading what she'd written down, Geralt watching her before she drifted off to sleep, he smiled. He loved it when she did that. Carefully removing the ink and quill to a safe distance and prying the book from her hands, he scooped her up in his arms, laying her to rest on the bed and pulling the covers over them as he lay beside her, wrapping his arms around her as she sighed softly. He knew that this was exactly where he was supposed to be, there was no room for doubt in his mind. But, there was something else he felt, something he'd never truly experienced before. It took him a while to realise what it was. After years on the path, he felt that he was home at last._

* * *

As his eyes skimmed over the first page he cursed himself silently and hastily made to move the book away, to hide it from sight. He sharply pulled one of the draws open almost causing it to tumble out. Clumsily he slid the memento inside and closed the drawer with a bang. Painful memories of better times. He turned his back on it.

Not long after he heard the distant sound of hooves clattering against cobblestone, then there was a brief spell of silence before a single set of footsteps began to make their way towards the house. He knew it must be Ciri.

The floorboards creaked ever so slightly under her weight as she carefully crept upstairs. Once she reached the foyer instead of turning towards her own room she went the opposite way, walking the small distance to the door of the master bedroom. But the door handle didn't move. Geralt could hear Ciri breathing on the other side of the door. After what must have been several minutes, he heard her walk away. _I've scared her away_.

The Witcher ran both hands over his face and through his hair, suddenly the room seemed stifling. Rising to his feet he walked briskly onto the balcony and rested his heavy arms against the railing, slouching over as he lowered his head and closed his eyes. _I'm a monster._

He felt his Witcher medallion slip out from beneath his shirt as it dangled in the night air. It felt like a weight tied around his neck, a brand he had willingly accepted to remind him of his greatest sin. It defined him, and he despised everything it represented. _She's afraid of me…but maybe that's for the best…_

The wonder of the moonlit landscape stirred no feeling in his dispassionate heart as he stared out with glassy eyes which were riveted on a particularly dull, muddy spot on the cobblestone below the balcony. He would have welcomed a cold breeze to tickle his bare skin, this warmth didn't suit his mood, but in Toussaint that wish would forever be denied. Unless Yennefer was here.

Since the Mistress had moved into the estate it had known two spectacular White Yules. How the children here had revelled at the miracle, at the scene plucked right out of a fairy-tale, and how Yennefer had melted in their adulation, and how happy it had made Geralt to watch her so content, surrounded by small beaming faces as they begged her to teach them of the world. Of course, she could not deny them.

A classroom. That was on the 'to do list' in the small leather-bound book he'd locked away. A classroom for the children, so Yennefer didn't have to teach them under the glaring sun, so that they could have their own space in this expansive estate, a safe place to learn and prosper. He wondered just how much they missed her. He shook his head.

Geralt went to sleep an hour or two later on the floor next to Yennefer's resting place. He dreamt of the home he'd found, and lost.

* * *

"Where did you go yesterday, Ciri, Triss?" Asked Nenneke kindly over breakfast the next morning, dishing out a healthy ladle of scrambled eggs onto her plate before dishing some out for the other two women without invitation.

"Nowhere in particular, we just rode around, talked." Mumbled Triss, looking at the mountain of food the Priestess had piled onto her plate, scooping up a small pile of mushrooms and chewing on them without much enthusiasm.

Ciri didn't reply. Out of the corner of her eye, the Sorceress could see Nenneke's gaze burning into the side of Ciri's head as she cyclically shovelled food into her mouth and took long gulps of juice. She never glanced up from her plate or acknowledging that she was aware of anything more than the presence of food and drink at the table. There was an awkward silence which made Triss feel uncomfortable. She had always loathed moments like this and often took it as her sacred duty to put an end to all moments such as this, but the silence had conquered her.

"Have either of you seen Geralt this morning?" Asked Nenneke. The other two women both shook their heads. "I'll see if I can't get him to come down, being alone up there, well it can't be good for him. Perhaps you can take a ride together this morning?" There was still no reply. Triss wasn't sure how, but Nenneke's placid, motherly face didn't falter for even a second, not one muscle twitched. The Priestess must be so used to wearing that mask now, Triss thought, but she couldn't believe that anyone had the strength to keep up such a ruse in the face of everything that had happened.

There was the brief sound of a chair scraping quietly against the stone as she pushed herself away from the table and rose to her feet. Slowly she began to hobble towards the stairs and make the ascent.

Almost immediately after hearing the door upstairs click shut, Triss heard Ciri sigh with relief as she dropped her knife and fork down on the tablecloth and slouched back in her chair, physically deflating as her feigned appetite dissipated along with her remaining fragments of vigour. Triss looked away shamefully. She was disgusted by her own helplessness.

* * *

Her eyes took a few moments to adjust to the southern morning light which splashed against the walls and floor of the Master Bedroom as she walked in and shut the door behind her. Geralt was lying on his back on the right side of the bed, hands behind his head as he stared at the blank ceiling which encompassed his sight as though utterly captivated by its simplicity.

"Geralt, we need to talk." She announced to the room as she gradually inched closer towards him.

"I'm not in the mood, Nenneke." Grovelled the Witcher, failing abysmally to afford the Priestess even an ounce of cordiality as he looked diligently up above, eyes turned towards the heavens and away from the reality outside of him.

"Well unfortunately for you, Geralt," she replied irritably, lowering herself into a chair with shaky arms, "there are more important matters than what suits your best interest. Now, would you please do me the courtesy of getting up, so your old friend doesn't have to strain her poor neck to talk to you."

"What do you want, Nenneke?" Asked Geralt several long minutes later with infallible displeasure as he reluctantly complied dragging himself up like a sulking child and slumping into the chair opposite her, his elbows resting on his legs as he leant over, huffing. The sight was somehow as equally pathetic as it was harrowing.

"Geralt," she said sternly, the unusual tone of her voice compelling him to look up and hold her gaze. "I'm sorry to have to be the one to say this, but there are times when one must do unpleasant, even unspeakable things, for the ones we care deeply about. I take this as my responsibility. Listen closely because I don't have the energy to repeat myself."

Nenneke closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, praying to the Goddess for the strength to do what, regrettably, must be done. Despite the costs.

* * *

Noël Coward: _Blithe Spirit_ – **Chapter 6, Being Honest**

"It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit."

* * *

First things first, MERRY CHRISTMAS! Hope you all have a wonderful holiday :)

Hope you liked the chapter, I promise that the slow burn is coming to an end, the next chapter is longer and in the one after that things actually start to happen (at long last).

I always imagined Yennefer and Geralt adding their own personal touches to the estate over the years, and these renovations have been mentioned in some of my other stories, and now you finally have some context.

Feel free to comment, I love to hear from people and would absolutely love to have more interaction. So please, do drop an ask on my Tumblr if you have any questions or just something to say (either my main blog or my creative one, both under Eileniessa).

Again, thank you daisyofgalaxy for all the wonderful help and support and until next time guys. xx


	6. Being Honest

Noël Coward: Blithe Spirit – **Chapter 6, Being Honest**

"It's discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit."

* * *

Several minutes had passed since Nenneke left. Ciri was still sat at the table, hunched over in her chair, one arm resting heavily against the table; the other hovering just above it as she lazily traced the natural patterns of the wood not obscured by the tablecloth. Every so often, Triss would look up from her plate of food and glance across the table hoping to say something, anything. She felt sadness at the sight which sat before her. She felt a sense of loss. Her 'Lil Sis' was perhaps not so little anymore; she'd lost that aura of youthful curiosity and bounce, that inclination for adventure and mischief. Triss wanted to blame the court, despise them for transforming Ciri well before her time. But she couldn't. Why? Because she knew that if Yennefer was here, things would be different.

That's why she blamed herself.

Yennefer's death had hit them all and besides the Witcher, Ciri has undoubtedly been hit the worst. She'd lost not only a Mother, but along with her one of the few people she could trust. One of the only people who could understand her. Perhaps the one person who always knew what to say and someone who could always find the strength to say it. Now, she was left with next to nothing. Now she had no one to rely on. None had Yennefer's will, none could overcome their own grief and silence to comfort her. Not like Yennefer could. They'd failed.

 _I've failed._

She wished to find the words which could help knit together this bleeding wound, to weave the same magic Yennefer had seamlessly acquired. But wishing had never gotten Triss anything, it brought only disappointment. Emptiness. She tried to speak but as always, her lips were sealed shut.

She wasn't Yennefer.

* * *

Geralt watched passively as the Priestess closed her eyes off to the world and muttered a prayer under her breath. He heard every word but as usual, he didn't understand their meaning. To him, they were powerless. She opened her eyes.

"You need to stop being so insufferably obstinate this instance," she began in a rush most uncharacteristic, "you've been carrying around this guilt for two years and it needs to end, now, before you completely tear yourself apart. Stop being selfish, Geralt, and think for a second outside of your own little world. Think about Ciri, Geralt: the child needs you now more than ever but every time you're around her, you pull her further into the hole you're gradually digging for yourself. I'll not let you drag her down with you, hasn't she not suffered enough already? So, take a bath, get dressed and come downstairs because you need to start cleaning up the mess you've made before everything around you crumbles to ruins."

Geralt didn't comment. He gave Nenneke time to register the uncomfortable and fatiguing silence which had engulfed them. He gave himself a moment's pause to watch her drown in the sullenness she had blindly thrown them into. He indulged in this rare satisfaction. His appetite slated, he spoke.

"Have you finished?"

The voice which rang in his ears as the words left his lips sounded nothing like his own. It wasn't just calm, but eerily so. It was cold and biting. And he was proud of it, proud to think of the terror such a voice could evoke. Nenneke seemed taken aback, her bodying stiffening at his remark. But to his dismay, she did not cower and run for her life, as she should have done. With remarkable obdurateness, she raised up her chin, her neck cracking quietly.

"No, Geralt, I'm not." She began, her steady voice betrayed no sign of fear or weariness. "You made a promise to Yennefer, Geralt, you told her that you would never leave her alone. But look at you. You're not the Witcher I've spent hours treating in my temple, nor the father figure Ciri once admired and you're not the man Yennefer sacrificed her very soul for. If you can't find the will to pull yourself together for your own sake, Geralt, then do it for her. You owe her that much. Yennefer would hate to see what has become of you."

Geralt clinched his jaw at the sound of her name. "Leave Yen out of this, Nenneke." He said through gritted teeth, interjecting as she caught her breath. He heard her huff angrily, nostrils flaring angrily.

"No, I shan't. How could I, Geralt, when Yennefer appears to be the one and only thing of any gravity in your life now, the only thing of any significance? You've spent so long straining your eyes to see her, to hold onto her, that nothing else comes into your view. You're naïve to everything else beyond this vision you've conjured up for yourself. And the world is falling apart around you, Geralt. But you don't care, do you? No. You've left your daughter - your and Yennefer's daughter - alone. Yennefer left Ciri in your care, Geralt, because she trusted that you would look after her as you have always done. But you haven't done that, have you? You haven't been there when Ciri, when Yennefer, needed you most."

"You don't understand a thing, Nenneke." He growled, knuckles whitening as he tightly clasped his hands together, pressing down with as much force as he could muster. His arms shook. But the attack did not relent.

"I think I understand better than you do Geralt, because I've not spent the past two years trying to delude myself. Be honest with yourself, Geralt, as I am. Because…"

There seemed to be an implausible moment of silence. Nenneke looked as though she was choking on whatever words were stubbornly caught in her throat and there was a look of disgust which painted her features as though a foul taste lingered in her mouth. After gasping at the air for but without making any intelligible sound, she was once again burdened with the power of speech. The words stole the remaining strength she possessed.

"Because this man, Geralt, this man, whoever you are, doesn't stand a chance of saving Yennefer."

* * *

Triss wasn't sure how many seconds or minutes passed them by as they sat in that state, Ciri and her. Ignorant of the existence of the other sitting just across the table. Ignoring their plight. The atmosphere was making Triss self-conscious in an uncomfortable way. It was a fanfare that applauded her uselessness. Her degrading trail of thought continued.

 _Yenna always knew…_

* * *

Triss knew she should have walked away. To intrude on such an intimate moment would have been considered distasteful even by Mage's standards which of course said volumes about the severity of her intrusion. She had meant to walk away. She'd wanted to. But Triss just, couldn't.

Truth be told, if anyone ever asked her why she hadn't just walked back out the door, she would have been hard-pressed to defend her actions, to fathom a possible explanation for why she had become so transfixed. Perhaps one might offer an argument in her defence. They might say, 'well, it was magic of course'. A part of her believed that such a statement might have some truth in it, beneath the surface at least. While it wasn't the magic she knew, while it wasn't the energy she could feel in the air around her, the force she channelled through her body, it was still, somehow, 'magical'.

The Sorceress would have dropped her head in shame to use such a description. To lower herself to the bumbling and stupid answers of village folk when talking about unknown phenomenon in an attempt to give meaning to what they could not possibly comprehend. But, there was simply no other way to put it. The words Yennefer spoke, they were not magic, but 'magical'.

It had been several hours since the end of the battle, since the death of her dear old friend, of Geralt and Ciri's mentor, since his funeral. Triss spent that time patching up the wounds she could, the wounds that people would let her heal, she thought, pointedly remembering Yennefer's preference for a concealment charm to hide the deep gash on her forehead rather than healing magic. Then again, that was very much the 'Yennefer way'.

When she'd finally finished making the rounds, Triss found that there was little to preoccupy her mind with, now that her hands were still. She could feel the pressure mounting and in fear of erupting she'd hastily excused herself and made a dash towards what she hoped would be a quiet and secluded room. And that's how she'd ended up in this messy little situation.

She'd had no reason to suspect that this particular room would have any occupancies. It was mostly caved in after all, at least that's the excuse she had needlingly accepted. The door to this long-forgotten place was nowhere in sight and the entrance itself was mostly blocked off by rubble. None of the Witchers, or indeed any man in armour, would be able to squeeze their way inside.

The Sorceress had been focused entirely on finding refuge that it wasn't until she'd gotten past the rubble that she registered the voices. One of the walls on the right-hand side had collapsed spewing beams and large chunks of stone across the cold floor. It was on this rubble that two feminine figures were perched each with their back to Triss who was frozen at the threshold.

"How will I ever be able to look him in the eye, Yennefer. How?"

Even after years apart, Triss could not mistake Ciri's voice for any other. Nor could she deny the unmitigated sadness in it and the pain it conveyed.

"Ciri, you will be able to look Geralt in the eyes with as much ease as you always have, because nothing's changed."

She wasn't sure what to make of the second voice, not because it belonged to a woman whom always seemed to provoke a complex array of emotions within her, but because it sounded, different. It sounded soothing. Such a tone was hard to equate with Yennefer. Yet, here it was. Triss felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over her. She knew such a tone was not worthy of her ears, which was one of the reasons why it was almost impossible to turn away.

"Everything's changed," said Ciri with a slight note of annoyance. She made a wide sweeping gesture with her arms before huddling over again and gripping her sides tightly. "I killed him, I killed Vesemir, Yennefer. I'm responsible for the death of Geralt's oldest friend, of his father figure."

"Never say that again, Ciri," replied the Enchantress quickly, her voice was an unnatural juxtaposition between stern and comforting. "You did not kill Vesemir and do you know why? Because he died for you, not because of you. Don't, interrupt." She said threateningly as Ciri, or at least Triss presumed from her position still just within the entrance, opened her mouth. She was almost certain she heard the younger woman huff grumpily. "He had a choice, Ciri, a choice only afforded to a rare few, and that choice was to put the life of another, of someone dear to him, before his own. Blaming yourself for his death is equivalent to blaming Vesemir for harbouring affection, Ciri. He does not deserve that blame."

There was no immediate reply from Ciri. Her head was still perfectly aligned with her body as she looked and faced out straight ahead. From her position, Triss couldn't be certain if Ciri was actually listening to Yennefer's words as they sat side by side on the rubble. The Sorceress' face partly obscured by the messy, dust-stained locks tumbling around her.

"Look at me, child." The Yennefer's mellifluous words were accompanied by an affectionate and motherly gesture. She delicately placed a hand, noticeably free of its gloves, on her cheek, encouraging the ashen-haired head to turn to face her own.

"Do not deny Vesemir this sacrifice, Ciri, I beg of you. I…" Yennefer noticeably hesitated and Triss gasped softly in spite of herself. She would never have believed it possible. "Before I met you, my child, my daughter...Before either you or Geralt had the misfortune of walking into my life, I had never once been afforded the luxury of sacrifice. Before you two, I doubt I would ever have put the life of another before my own. It pleases me greatly - more than I can express - to say this is at last something I have obtained. Sacrifice, Ciri, one life for another. It is a most beautiful and rare thing even though it's tinged with sadness. So please, do not blame yourself for his death but be happy that you were such a significant part of his life, as you and Geralt are in mine, that he was willing to give his life for you. Please, Ciri, as a Mother, I ask this of you."

While Ciri's face was only partly turned towards her, Triss could still see the single teardrop sliding down her cheek which Yennefer carefully swept away. They looked at each other for a while, and then they embraced. The raven-haired Sorceress stroked the young Empress' hair affectionately and whispered to her. Triss could see Ciri's form visibly relax under her touch. If she hadn't been there as a witness, she doubted that anyone would have been able to convince her that a few plain and simple words, common words at that, could have had such an effect.

* * *

Triss still felt guilty to this day for her intrusion and was unsure whether she should consider herself lucky or unfortunate for not having her presence noticed. She has seen an invaluable sight, true, but perhaps all that had done was further cement her own feelings of helplessness now. She couldn't speak the same effortless 'magical' words.

 _But what was stopping her from trying?_

The thought popped uninvited into her head, ringing loudly and making a scene in her previously quiet and nostalgic mind. However, she could not help but entertain the thought. What was stopping her? Triss saw her reflection in the pitcher screw up its face in quizzical concentration.

 _Nothing_.

A second thought appeared in her head in answer to the first. It was as equally disturbing and interesting as the first. Could it be true, she wondered reluctantly looking across the table at Ciri, as she had done that fateful night.

 _How did Yennefer know what to say?_

Triss was surprised that this relatively straightforward question had somehow never crossed her mind. What knowledge had Yennefer possessed that she was missing, that allowed her to speak where she fell silent?

 _Strength._

And that was the truth at the heart of the matter, Triss sighed.

* * *

By the time she had finished the final blow, Nenneke could feel cold beads of sweat sliding down her flushed face, and she was trembling, only a little bit, but a lot more than was normal for her. It startled her. She'd seen many things in her life. Most of her memories she recounted with joy, soaking up the sweet nostalgia which came alongside the exclusivity of old age. However, there were also, sadly, memories which threatened to overshadow what has for the most part been a life full of light.

Nenneke knew that this memory would be the darkest of them all.

Geralt was insensate. He was utterly silent. He was completely still. Frozen. Nenneke had never felt more uncomfortable in her own skin; she felt sick to her core. She was internally disgusted by the putrid words which left a foul, pungent taste in her mouth as they shredded the unspoken bond of trust between them. She felt ashamed, even in spite of her conviction that this course of action was necessary. If not for Geralt's sake, then for Yennefer's, she thought. Nenneke owed her that much, at least. For ever doubting her…

The Archpriestess endured the silence but eventually, it became too much for her. With reluctant enthusiasm, she rose to her feet and with heavy footsteps began to walk towards the door. When she reached the Witcher's side, she paused. Carefully, she placed a withered hand on his shoulder. There was no response.

"I'm sorry, Geralt." She looked at him for a short while longer. She wasn't sure who she was looking at. She withdrew her hand.

When she reached the doorframe, she cast a look over her shoulder. She sighed and walked out the door.

"Did she really mean it?"

One foot in the foyer and one foot still in the bedroom, the brusque question stopped Nenneke in her tracks as though a wall of force had been erected before her. The words conjured up a perplexing mix of emotions within her: bewilderment, anxiety, faith, to name a few. Before she had turned back around and voiced her confusion, Geralt elaborated.

"When Ciri said she'd already lost me, do you think she meant it?"

To Nenneke it sounded more as though the Witcher was thinking aloud - a peculiar and somehow endearing habit of his which had developed over his later years - than proposing this query to her. Thoughts most often played out as conversations, she noted, much like a child conversing with their imaginary friend. Convinced that this must be the case, after another bout of silence, she began to turn her back. It was only when his eyes came up to meet her that she stopped.

She began to feel even more queasy, the muscles in her face tightened and her body sagged against the doorframe. Suddenly, the pressure became too much. She bowed her head to the floor.

"Yes, Geralt. I think she did."

* * *

Triss was still following her trail of thought when a door upstairs opened, the sound echoed in the grave silence. After a minute or so of muffled speech, footsteps, a single set, could be heard making their way down the stairs. Out of the corner of her eye, Triss saw Ciri pick up her cutlery again and fell back into the busy task of demolishing her food.

When Nenneke re-joined them at the table, only the sound of a scraping chair loosened the leaching atmosphere which hung around them. Triss had never seen the Priestess looking so...Drained. She made no attempt to engage in conversation. _Even the Gods have failed us now_ , she thought bitterly.

From across the table, she saw Ciri hesitantly look up from her plate. It was as though she was afraid to come out of hiding and look at the woman sitting next to Triss. Nenneke was rubbing the nape of her neck - an ingrained habit of hers - and staring into space as she did so. She didn't seem to notice all eyes in the room were pointed in her direction, or at least until Triss saw a tear roll down Ciri's face. The girl quickly wiped it away with her hand and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear in an attempt to hide the true nature of her gesture.

Triss caught the young woman's eyes and she gave a small smile. Ciri didn't respond. Triss bit her lip and cast her eyes to the floor, slinking away into her remorseful disposition. _This is a mess_ , she thought, _oh Triss…what has become of us all. If Yenna was here…_ She sighed.

It would be impossible to count the number of times that thought had ventured into her consciousness and she didn't even want to begin speculating on its morbid residence in her unconscious thought. Even more startling, perhaps, was that the origin of those dreams and reflections surpassed far more than two years: they extended well into Yennefer's living years.

The thought was simultaneously a tool and a hindrance. It was something she relied upon in times of need - a guide which steered her out of trouble or helped her when she didn't know what to do. But it was also a dangerous safety net. A crippling sense of reasoning that if Yennefer knew what to do, why not pass the responsibility onto her…

Why risk her neck searching for the girl that an Empire and a mage hunted when Yenna's motherly instincts would undoubtedly lead to her own attempts being futile in comparison? Why defy the lodge to help a Witcher when Yennefer had nothing to lose yet everything to gain? Why should she try to train a child whose powers are out of control when her dear friend could provide better counsel and protection? Why expend her magic, her life, to save the man she claims to love as he bleeds out over the cobblestone when Yennefer's vast knowledge and strength will surely save the day? Why should she try…

If their roles were reversed, if Triss' soul had been wrenched from her body there would not be such devastation in her wake. _Yennefer would know what do_ , she thought, _I don't… I'm not Yenna_. The Sorceress coked her head to one side and stared at a spot on the wall just above Ciri's head.

 _I'm not Yenna…perhaps that's where I'm going wrong…_

Politely, and albeit awkwardly, she excused herself from the table.

* * *

Dwight D. Eisenhower – **Chapter 7, Making Plans**

"In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable."

* * *

Surprise update! Happy new year everyone :) So I'm updating the story early (with another update next Sunday before scheduling goes back to normal) to say a HUGE thank you to all you lovely people for reading my stories, messaging me, asking me questions and leaving comments. I'm looking forward to writing more stories soon, happy 2018.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, after this the pace is going to start picking up and Geralt and the others should be entering the Realm in Chapter 10 or 11. I'm really looking forward to writing about it.

As always, feel free to comment, PM me or drop an ask into my Tumblr mail and thank you to DaisyofGalaxy for being an amazing beta :)


	7. Making Plans

Dwight D. Eisenhower – **Chapter 7, Making** **Plans**

"In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable."

* * *

Nenneke didn't say anything once she re-joined the dull breakfast gathering. When Triss left the procession, she didn't bat an eyelid. In the past, this uncharacteristic change would have alarmed Ciri, but now…Now, not so much. She was 'The Lady of Time and Space', after all, a proclamation like that didn't come with abundant innocence and nescience. It was a curse.

Countless possibilities and scenarios had run through Ciri's mind the previous night. She had been unable to sleep because of these buzzing thoughts and images which set her nerves on edge. It was worse for her than the others. Geralt, Triss, Nenneke, they'd all experienced many things, they all had dark and grisly corners in their lives, but each of those haunting memories had anchors here, in this world. Ciri was tethered to countless.

Her anoetic dreams drew on inspiration from all the various places she had been. From worlds where the sky was filled with gigantic metal birds that took people from one place to another, but which could also burn down an entire city overnight. From the lands covered with trees that grew as though the sky was the limit and from which branches houses hung. Some even disappeared into the clouds, because no one wished to see what monstrosities lived below the leaves, the twisted ancestors who had arisen from the dead. From cities where illness had been completely eradicated by marvellous technology and medicine. Where those who could not be cured were cast out into the wild so as not to spoil society with their filthy blood.

How she longed to be phlegmatic, to be able to look at pain and suffering impassively. To avoid the crushing fear which, more often than not, accompanied it. But she would not give up her fear for anything, it didn't just keep her alive but kept her human through all that she had seen. She counted herself fortunate.

* * *

Long minutes passed, or perhaps an hour, until another curious, though considerably less troubling, happening occurred. When the woman walked through the door, Ciri almost didn't recognise her, or at least she had to do a double-take to reassure herself that her eyes were indeed not playing tricks on her. It was a rather inappropriately comedic one at that.

Ciri's gaze followed the Auburn head as its owner made a beeline straight for her. Ciri hadn't even had the chance to blink confusedly at Triss before the Enchantress thrust several papers of various shapes and sizes under her nose without waiting for an invitation.

"Within four weeks, Corvo Bianco needs to be fortified and ready to withstand a large and prolonged assault," she began with an imperative tone, leaning over the table and spreading out the pieces of paper upon it. "And if we plan on getting this place ready, then we need to make a start, _now._ "

Ciri didn't respond, she was too busy watching the Sorceress closely. When Triss straightened up, she stood with a tall, erect posture, her shoulders back and head slightly raised. She was looking at Ciri determinedly, and she didn't break eye contact.

Ciri felt a sharp jab in her arm. "Hey, Lil Sis," Triss called softly, drawing Ciri from her perplexing stupor. "I need your help," she gestured with one hand towards the parchment. Taking a closer look, the young woman saw that they were all sketches of the estate. "I'm no good with fortifications and defence, but I'm hoping that if you've learned anything in the Empire, it will be how to make this place ready for what's coming."

Ciri stared cow-eyed, her gaze flickering between the Sorceress and the plans. She wasn't quite sure where to look. She'd been caught off guard.

"I…" She murmured, trailing off as she tugged at her earlobe.

In her peripheral vision, she saw a flash of movement which turned her head. Triss was holding out a pencil to her with undisguisable intention. "I understand Ciri, I do, because I'm also afraid. So very afraid." Confided Triss, smiling at her despite the sombre tone of her voice. It was a sweet smile, one Ciri recognised from a lifetime ago. Only now did she realise how much she'd missed it. "I'm afraid of the nightmares that we might face, of the things we will be forced to witness and to experience. I'm too afraid to even begin imagining what will happen if we fail. It's been a long two years Ciri, you've been asked to give a lot, I know. But please, give a little more, because if anyone is worth fighting for, no matter how unfavourable the odds might seem, it's Yenna. I know that I'm willing to do anything to save her. She, of all people deserves that sacrifice…"

* * *

 _Triss wasn't entirely sure where the man would be at this hour. Knowing his practical nature and his empowering, perhaps inhuman, sense of obligation and duty, she was able to deduce several logical answers. As luck would have it, she found him at the second of these places._

 _Several large and sturdy wooden barrels stood atop an uncovered wagon attached to a pair of dust brown horses. The Majordomo was talking with a young man she didn't recognise, signing a piece of paper and then passing it to him. The unknown man jumped up onto the wagon, and with a flick of his wrists the wagon was on its way out through the gates, now laden with wine._

 _"Basil," she ventured timidly. The Majordomo turned to face her, hands clasped behind his back. "Do you have any plans of the estate, please?"_

 _He nodded his head. "Why, of course we do, Lady Merigold. I have ensured that they are all up-to-date to reflect the countless renovations which have taken place since Master Geralt had first made his residence here." He answered flawlessly, beaming proudly at her. It was clear that he cared for Corvo Bianco a lot, maybe more than its owners._

 _"Would I be able to see them, please?"_

 _"I will get them right away, please follow me."_

 _Triss walked a little way behind him, trying to keep with the man's unnaturally brisk pace, as they headed towards one of the buildings she knew to be his residence. She waited on the doorstep as he stepped inside, wringing her wrists._

 _She wasn't Yennefer, and that thought was where the problems began. Triss didn't know how the raven-haired Sorceress would try to make amends. She knew that, unlike Yenna, she could not find the 'magic' words. She wasn't Yenna…And she needed to stop trying to be…_

 _A door shut nearby._

 _"The plans, Lady Merigold." He handed over a neatly tied bundle of parchment with a slight nod of the head. "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"_

 _"No, no I'm fine. Thank you."_

* * *

 _Her second stop was the study. As she opened the door a familiar and comforting smell reached her nostrils, a mixture of ink, parchment, dust and old books. She inhaled deeply._

 _It didn't take long for her to find what she was looking for. In one of the many desk draws was a handful of pencils, quills and inkpots. She grabbed out several of each item before taking a few blank pieces of paper and holding them. She threw the stationary in a small, empty wooden box on one of the bookcases and tucked it under her arm. With the blank parchment in one hand and sketched in the other, she left the room pulling the door two behind her. As it clicked shut, Triss closed her eyes and took several steadying breaths._

 _She wasn't Yennefer. She didn't know what to do. Instead, she'd have to improvise. She needed to concentrate not on what Yennefer might do, but on what Triss would – could - do. It was time to take some responsibility._

 _She owed her friend that much. That, and so much more._

* * *

"…So, let's start planning how to bring Yenna – your Mother – home."

Triss wasn't sure how she managed it, but her hand, which was still outstretched before her, a pencil in its grasp, didn't shake. She continued to smile at Ciri, a hand resting on the young woman's shoulders. She gave it a gentle squeeze and a pair of emerald eyes looked up at her. Triss inadvertently held her breath.

Ciri seemed to consider her for a while and she felt the air grow still. The moment seemed to stretch on into eternity. Then, time slowly began to move. She felt a pair of calloused fingers briefly brush her own as the offer was accepted. Ciri twirled the pencil round in her nimble fingers, watching it carefully. Then she looked up, and smiled.

"Then we better get started."

Triss breathed again.

* * *

"Given her affection for Lady Yennefer, might I suggest contacting Her Duchess. Undoubtedly, Her Enlightened Ladyship, if willing, would be able to provide a vast and generous array of resources to aid us." Suggested Barnabas-Basil sometime well after midday as he, Ciri and Triss clustered together in the dining room with piles of parchment and books strewn around the large space.

The Enchantress looked up at him from one of Yennefer's old, well used spell tomes. "That would be a very wise idea, thank you. But how best to inform her of what's happened and to make such a request?" Inquired the Sorceress, rubbing the back of her aching neck.

"I would recommend that either Lady Ciri or Master Geralt speak to Her Duchess in person. With your permission, I will send a letter to the Palace at once, so as to arrange a private and urgent audience."

"Please do, thank you." She replied, stiffening a yawn.

He bowed politely and sallied forth out of sight.

"Triss, do you know of any mages who would be willing to offer us aid, the Lodge perhaps?" Asked Ciri, without taking her eyes off one of several copied-out plans of the estate which she was scribbling all over.

Screwing up her face as she tried to rack her brain for names. "Rita and Keira would likely be willing," she answered, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hand, "Philippa might do, if only to please the Emperor. Other than that, I honestly don't know. Since the Witch Hunts, most are even more unwilling to put their necks on the line than before. The gathering at Thanedd was supposed to help us reunite, to stimulate magical research and influence, but considering what happened…" She trailed off for a moment and Ciri saw the hand massaging her neck cease its movements. The Sorceress sighed. "I'll use Yenna's megascope to contact the Lodge and then I'll try to get in touch with as many mages as I can think of, but I can't promise much."

"Thank you." She said, turning her attention back to her work only to be disrupted again by Nenneke, as she came tottering back into the room,

She waved around a handful of sealed letters. "There are six girls from the temple within two weeks travel from here, I'll have Basil send these letters out at once. Hopefully, they will all be able to answer my request."

"So, with the six of them along with Shani, Regis, Nenneke, Corvo Bianco's Doctor and perhaps one or two medics from the city that makes," Ciri squinted her eyes, "twelve possible healers we'll have on site."

"I think we should discount one from the list," pointed out Triss, interrupting Ciri just before the quill touched the page. "Someone should remain with Yennefer at all time, just in case." Ciri nodded her head in agreement.

"I can do that," offered Nenneke, "I'm too old to be rushing around after the wounded, I shall stay beside her."

"Alright, so I'll put down eleven then. Right what next," said Ciri "…Well, sticking with the medical theme, what are we going to do about medical supplies? What the estate has won't be appropriate."

"I think I can again help here." Said Nenneke, politely gesturing at Triss for a piece of paper. "I can make a list of things that we can get in Beauclair as well as some herbs and other ingredients which I know both I, Triss and Geralt should be able to make use of. Hopefully between the two of you," she waved her hand at the two younger women, "we should be able to get everything we need, even if it's not in Toussaint."

"Agreed but supplies will have to be a secondary priority for me," said Ciri distractedly. The tip of her tongue ever so slightly protruding from her mouth as she tried to finish the sketch she's been working on. "I need to track down Eskel and Lambert to start with, and then anyone else who's willing to come here and fight."

"Eskel shouldn't be too hard to find, I saw him in Kovir just before I made my way to Toussaint," said Triss casually but Ciri was almost certain that her cheeks went a slightly deeper shade of red than was usual for her at the mention of this little piece of information.

Ciri tried to swallow a chuckle and pretended as though she'd not noticed. "Okay, good, that gives me several more days to travel around than I'd anticipated. I'll set out as soon as I've spoken to the Duchess. Better get people here as soon as we can, the workers are going to need all the help they can get when it comes to getting this place ready. Triss, can you take a look at this list please, I can't shift the feeling that I might have missed someone."

"Sure."

She handed over the piece of parchment upon which she'd created a 'guest list' of sorts, naming anyone and everyone she could think of who would be willing to come along to this nightmarish fanfare. It would be a miracle if they managed to find half the people on there, let alone persuade them to help. If there was one thing worse than seeing what was on the horizon, of knowing the hordes of foes who stood like immovable statues in your path to victory and prosperity, it was not knowing what might lie in wait.

Shaking her head, Ciri stretched, sighing with content. She leaned back in the chair in a most unladylike fashion and rocked back and forth on its two back legs while Triss finished reading.

"Well, no other names come to mind so surely that must be all-" The Sorceress gasped loudly and covered her mouth with her hand looking rather sheepish as her cheeks began to glow again.

Ciri looked at her confused, then followed Triss' gaze. She saw that the door to the dining room had just sprung open, but the man inside the doorframe wasn't Basil, he was far too big to be the Majordomo.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," said Geralt smiling apologetically at Triss as he ambled into the room taking a seat beside Ciri at the table and pulling his damp hair behind his shoulder. Then he reached out his hand. "Do you mind if I have a look?"

It was only when Geralt repeated himself that Triss seemed to register it was her to whom he was speaking. She reached across the table to pass it to him, muttering something which sounded like a sorry under her breath. She handed over the now very creased piece of parchment with unsteady hands.

His eyes quickly skimmed over it. "I can think of a few knights here to ask but besides them, everyone else is already on here, and last I heard Lambert was going back to Kaer Morhen for a while, he might still be there if we're lucky." Nobody said anything. Geralt chuckled quietly and then he looked at Ciri and he smiled. She blinked several times in disbelief. "What?" He asked, looking around the table and at the flabbergasted audience. He seemed to squirm slightly in his seat as the silence and lack of response become excessively uncomfortable.

"Stupid Witcher," Ciri managed to blurt out irritably.

A second later and the plan making recommenced as though nothing had ever happened. Under the table, Ciri gave Geralt's hand a squeeze.

* * *

In the early evening, Ciri and Geralt were still sat at the table, side by side, finalizing the plans for Corvo Bianco's fortification. They were completely alone now. Triss had gone off to use Yennefer's old megascope, Nenneke, who was thoroughly exhausted, had turned in for an early night and Basil was locked away in the study writing countless calculations, letters and orders.

"Um, Master Geralt," said a voice nervously as Marlene, their cook, stuck her head around the door. "You have, um…Visitors."

Ciri and Geralt exchanged a confused and apprehensive look. Who would be calling here unannounced, let alone at this hour? Corvo Bianco didn't get many visitors, not anymore. Everyone knew their story by now. I wouldn't be a fairy-tale Dutchy without an unhealthy fascination for romance, and for lost love.

"Who is it?" Asked Geralt, lowering a piece of parchment to look at her.

Ciri watched Marlene run her fingertips nervously up and down the doorframe. When the elderly woman answered she noticed that she didn't hold his gaze. "The children, sir."

Now it all made sense.

Ciri's eyes drilled into the side of Geralt's head as she watched him hunch over in his seat and rest his elbows on the table. He clenched his hands together, resting his head on top. Marlene was still hovering in the doorway awkwardly, seemingly unsure whether or not she should wait for a response.

"Thank you, Marlene." Said Ciri smiling kindly at the woman who nodded her head and slipped away silently. She then turned her gaze on Geralt. "Geralt, I can-"

"No," he interrupted, "no Ciri, it's alright. I'll go."

Sighing deeply, he hauled himself to his feet and slowly dragged himself presumably to the front of the house. Even when out of sight, Ciri's eyes still trailed him and she strained her ears to try and catch any snippet of conversation. The house was quiet. After a minute or two, she shifted her focus back onto the plans and diffidently hoped for a miracle tonight.

* * *

 _Hamlet_ – William Shakespeare: **Chapter 8, Gathering Allies**

who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

* * *

Wow, would you look at that, things are actually starting to… _Happen_. What is this trickery! Anyhow, hope you liked this chapter. Was it nice to see a little bit of the old Geralt and Ciri? I'm now back to be fortnightly updates, so remember no chapter next week! On another note, I've started re-writing Promises, no idea when it will all be done but I'm hoping within two months. Ambitious, perhaps.

Please leave comments, even if it's only a short 'loved this' or 'great chapter' it still means a lot to read. Any questions, pop them in my ask box on Tumblr and check it out if you want to see some spoilers and hints! Thank you to my beta DaisyofGalaxy for being amazing, as always.

Until next time xx


	8. Gathering Allies

_Hamlet_ – William Shakespeare: **Chapter 8, Gathering Allies**

who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

* * *

Geralt tried to will his mind to be still as he walked unhurriedly towards the front door. He tried to quash the vicious and corybantic thoughts and possibilities racing before his eyes. There were countless reasons why he'd avoided this situation for two years, and he could recall them clearly.

Gentle moonlight was pouring through the small windows just a little on either side of the door. He could hear several small voices murmuring on the other side. It sounded as though they were all gathered outside his home. He dreaded the next few moments which lay ahead but… They deserved to know. Yennefer would want them to.

As soon as he had pulled the door open, the whispering stopped. Five young faces were peering up at him, one of which was partly obscured by a rather large bunch of violet flowers. A small, rather lanky boy with mousy brown hair and several freckles adorning his cheeks held the bouquet tightly in his hands. As he made eye contact with the Witcher he shuffled nervously on the spot and looked down at the floor as he spoke.

"Master Geralt, we, we heard, we heard that Lady Yennefer…That she's…She's not…" Alac trailed off as the words he desperately sought eluded him. Geralt heard him sniffle.

The smallest of the children, a young girl called Matilda, placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder while the other children continued to gaze up at him. They were unnervingly silent and reticent and hardly resembled the happy, questioning and carefree children he once told stories. The children who Yennefer use to teach and play with.

He watched for a moment as Alac tried to compose himself. While all the children on the state adored his beloved, Geralt knew that she had always meant the most to this timid boy. Yennefer had seen a great deal of potential in his unnurtured soul and spent extra time tutoring him. Geralt knew not whether it was through these hours in the study that she discovered something else about him. An unpleasant piece of her own childhood hidden beneath the cloth. It never failed to surprise Geralt to this day that Alac's father had left Toussaint in one piece, though he never doubted that fact would change if he ever set foot here again. He'd never seen her so enraged.

"Master Geralt," continued the boy, this time looking up from the floor, "are the rumours true? Is Lady Yennefer truly not lost to us?"

Five faces looked at him expectantly, Geralt smiled and moved away from the door. He beckoned them inside.

"I think you deserve to see for yourselves."

* * *

After the flowers had been safely placed in a vase beside her resting place, and once the children had gorged their eyes on her sleeping form, the Witcher spun them a tale. It was a story they should have heard long ago. He told them the true tale behind the Sorceress' demise, of the sacrifice she made, of the price his deal had cost him. He told them how her friends and family believed her story to have some to an end, that evil had conquered them all and broken her beloved's heart in twain. But then, a flicker of light began to shine through the encompassing darkness. He told them of the mysterious figures who came to him and his daughter under the boughs of a magical tree and of the deal which had been lain at their feet. He told them how this legend, unlike all the other adventures he had shared with them, was still being written.

"So, so Lady Yennefer really is dead, but she's, she's not…Gone…You can rescue her?" Tira wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Her twin, Rela, was clinging to her tightly.

"Yes," answered Geralt, looking at the children huddled on the floor besides the bed. "Yen died because he captured her soul and took her far, far away from here. He took her back to his home and that's where he's hidden her, but now we have a way of getting there. Now, we can free her."

"But why did he take her? Why has he locked her away?" Asked Dardi, a tall, stout boy, the oldest of the bunch. He was slouched up against the wall, hands in his pockets.

"Because I love her, Dardi, and he cannot stand to see such things. So, he took her from me, from us, because he knew it would make us sad, and that is something he likes to see."

"But he hasn't won, has he," the boy explained boisterously, puffing out his chest. Geralt, however, saw his eyes glistening. "You'll fight him, won't you, and you'll win. You'll save Lady Yennefer. Won't you?"

Of all the things they could have said, of all the questions they could have asked, why did it have to be that one. The one question he had purposefully been avoiding at all costs. He despised that question but what was worse...He feared it more. That question to which he could not be sure of the answer despite that fact it would ultimately determine his fate.

"That question" he began slowly, "is not something I can answer." Downfallen. The unanimous look which fell over their innocent faces upon hearing his sincere judgement. Geralt sighed. "What I can say is that I will do anything I can to save her. Anything at all. I love Yen more than life itself and there is no hardship I would not face to rescue her from that Monster. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to bring her home again."

There was a short spell of silence. The children were looking at one another uncertainly, then, all eyes were turned on Alac as he suddenly rose to his feet and approached the Witcher.

"Lady Yennefer once told me that the hardest, hardest trial we will ever face is placing our life in the hands of another, but that she would never hesitate for a second to entrust you with her own. She believed in you, trusted you, Master Geralt, as do I." He offered out a small hand. "You'll bring her home."

The Witcher smiled and took his hand. The future looked a lot less bleak than it had done for a long time.

* * *

After hours of planning, writing and thinking, the officers had done the day before, the start of the new day presented an opportunity for Geralt and Ciri to stretch their legs. Now that the orders and fortifications has been dealt with, it was time to tackle the second challenge. Recruitment.

* * *

One thing Ciri did not miss about Kaer Morhen was the cold. The sensation of biting winds and chills crawling up her spine evoked unfavourable memories and emotions. Despite this, she always felt good seeing the aged stone walls and towers again, the first place she had ever really felt at home. At peace.

As she pushed open the heavy doors to the keep she noticed several candles were alight, a promising sign. Following the hints of life, she delved deeper into Kaer Morhen until she found what she was looking for. Lambert swearing loudly on the other side of a closed door which lead to the pantry. She opened it without thinking.

Living under the same roof as Yennefer and Geralt, Ciri should have learnt by now that nowhere in the house was sacred. She quickly slammed the door shut and heard something smash against the wood a second later.

"Nice to see you too Lambert. And you, Keira." Shouted Ciri loudly, rolling her eyes.

There were sounds of movement, and swearing, and bickering, coming from the pantry. After a short moment the door swung open. Ciri was pleased to see that the scene before her eyes now contained considerably more clothing.

"Don't they teach you how to knock at Kaer Morhen." Said the Sorceress sardonically from somewhere near the back of the room as she finished buttoning up her dress.

"Guess I've learnt the hard way." Replied Ciri, trying to muffle a snicker at seeing the look on Lambert's face. "Anyhow, can't say I've ever had to worry about Lambert bringing 'guests' back before."

"Well, the one good thing about this bloody ruin is the privacy, but I guess it's lost that charm as well now." He said gruffly, kicking at a loose stone in the wall. "Why are you here, Ciri?"

"Because we need your help."

* * *

A couple of hours later, Ciri was wondering up the rain soaked streets of Novigrad, and she was in a rush. She hated this place, she loathed its blood-soaked alley ways and scorched town squares. She despised the aroma of death and despair which clung to it, even after all this time. The Witch Hunters might have been disbanded, but Novigrad still wasn't safe from them. They roamed the streets as outlaws, picking of mages, alchemists and non-humans wherever they could before slinking back into the shadows. Their armouries were stocked with dimeritium and weapons and their pockets were lined with blood money and bribes. Worst of all, but perhaps the least surprising, was how the streets whispered their secrets to the Witch Hunters. The seeds of prejudice had long ago been planted. No matter how many branches were hacked and burned away, it still grew and infiltrated the hearts of many. The greedy merchant, the unlucky gambler, the bankrupt baron. People who searched for somewhere to place the blame, so they could deny responsibility.

The last time Ciri had visited this dark city, Yennefer had a dangerously close call with these 'vigilantes'. It could have been a lot worse, it nearly was. It gave her nightmares to think what could have happened to her Mother, what might have been if they'd kept their grumpy, filthy little hands on her for longer than they had.

She shook her head.

Ciri scampered along the cobblestoned streets, she was heading towards the blacksmith, the one who was a friend of Geralt's. If Eskel wasn't there, she'd have to start asking around and that would complicate matters and waste a lot of precious time.

She pulled her cloak closer to her body as she walked down a particularly busy street, shouldering past several painstakingly slow guards who swore loudly at her. She ignored them. Ciri had no respect for the Novigrad guards, when Yennefer had been in trouble, they'd simply turned a blind eye.

A few minutes later and she had reached her destination, unfortunately, there was no sight of the Witcher. She cursed under her breath, throwing her head back.

"Ciri."

Eskel's husky chuckle greeted her and she spun around looking at his irritably. The Witcher held up his hands in mock surrender. Then, they embraced.

"Why do you always insist on sneaking up on my like that? One of these days it will end very badly for you." Said the young woman as they broke apart.

"I don't doubt that it will, but until them…" she saw his smile falter slightly. "How are you, Ciri? And how's Geralt? I was about to head down to Toussaint, wanted to pay my respects to, to your Mother."

"Well, about that…"

* * *

"How is that even possible?"

Triss groaned. How many times had she explained this now? How many times had people looked at her with utter disbelief and bombarded her with questions she couldn't answer. She was exhausted.

Since day-break she'd been locked away with Yennefer's old megascope trying to contact some of the other mages she believed would be willing to lend them aid, but that was only part of the battle. Out of the twenty or so names neatly written out on a piece of parchment, only a handful remained un-crossed out. Fringilla, Rita and Dorregaray. That was it. Everyone else was too caught up in self-interest, the mage community wasn't exactly known for being altruistic. Triss has hoped for better, but Yennefer was hardly popular among her peers and there where a whole host of reasons why. Many were jealous of her links with the Empire and with its Heiress, others longed for her power and beauty and some among them loathed her happiness. They made captious remarks behind her back and sneered at the thought of her 'happily ever after' because why did she, of all people, why did she and not they deserve such a fate. Besides, there was nothing more ridiculous than the notion of a retired Sorceress, let alone a retired Yennefer living out the rest of her longevity with her beloved, a Witcher, no less. Preposterous. There cannot be even an ounce of truth in such a tall tale.

That had stopped the day she died, when the room had been full of guilty faces. Now, nobody whispered her name, just as no one would come to her aid. Despite everything they owed her.

"Triss."

Philippa's shrill voice plucked her back into the present as she looked at the woman's magical form in the megascope. She was glowering at her, or at least she was presumably glowering at her from behind the magical cloth tied around her eyes. Triss regretted leaving her till last, she didn't have the energy to deal with Philippa. But then again, when did she ever have the energy for such a feat. When did anyone?

"Triss, none of this makes any sense."

"I know it doesn't Phil," she retorted, rubbing her temples with both hands and taking a deep breath, "but please, we need your help."

"Don't be a fool, Triss. You can't honestly expect me to drop everything, as you seem to do so carelessly, and chase around after, well, whatever the hell this is. I'm too old to pursue myths, Triss, and so are you."

She wasn't sure why, but something within her snapped. "You're just like the rest of them!" Screamed Triss, jabbing an accusing finger at the translucent image who seemed for a moment to be taken by surprise.

She quickly recovered. "How so, Triss." Philippa said slowly, pronouncing each word with bone-shilling clarity that seemed to slice the tension like a knife.

Threatening. Philippa's tone of voice was as clear as day. Such a tone would have once, without fail, chilled Triss to the bone and forced her into submission. Now, it only aggravated her.

"You're afraid."

Philippa considered her colleague for a moment, and then smiled. As usually, there was no warmth in it. "You've saved me much time over the years, Triss, by consistently drawing attention to your own painful naivety. Perhaps one day you'll grow up, child, but I've yet to see any evidence that you're capable of such a thing. I am not like you, nor like the other mages, because I am not afraid of O'Dimm. Oh no, I am simply unwilling to make my position in court vulnerable for such an unlucrative reward." Philippa sashayed forwards and loomed over the other Sorceress. "Perhaps one-day, dear Triss, you will finally come to accept that the world is driven by self-interest. For mages, that goes doubly."

She held her face close to Triss' for several seconds, then she slowly turned her back.

"I never said you were afraid of him, Phil."

Philippa stopped moving. "Then what am I afraid of, Triss?"

"Of the same thing which means you'll help bring Yenna back."

* * *

J.K. Rowling - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone: **Chapter 9, Brothers in Arms**

"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."

* * *

Hello my lovely readers! Hope you enjoyed this chapter, things are starting to truly fall into place. If you're wondering why this chapter is a little shorter than usual, its because I'm trying out something new – posting weekly. I can't promise that I'll be able to keep this up, but I'm hoping to be able to post shorter chapters every week with maybe a small break here and there. Tell me if you prefer this or longer chapters every other week.

Please, please, please comment, like, share etc. knowing people like my stories really helps give me the strength and enthusiasm to write?

Progress on rewriting Promises is going well, I'm on chapter 3. I've ended up changing more than I thought – because of all the things I've learned – but towards the end of the story, writing should be quicker. Looking forward to posting it.

Thanks to DaisyofGalaxy for being my amazing beta as always, go check out her fics! Do it!


	9. Brothers in Arms

J.K. Rowling - _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_ : **Chapter 9, Brothers in Arms**

"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends."

* * *

 _Shit. This is fucked up._

That was Lambert's helpful contribution. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Three Witchers, an Enchantress and a Witcheress were gathered in the master bedroom. Geralt didn't like it but he didn't have any other choice. Seeing was believing, even if it meant inviting people into this very intimate place and to gaze upon his raven-haired beauty as she rested. Still, he didn't like it. Not at all. Yennefer had always been a fairly private person.

"For once, I might actually have to agree with his choice of words," said Eskel seriously, running his hands over his jaw. "I don't know what to say, Wolf."

"Why don't you start with an answer."

The room went uncomfortably silent after Geralt spoke. Eskel was pacing up and down the balcony slowly, Keira was staring across the room at something apparently only she could see while Lambert was leaning against the wall, flipping a knife. Ciri and Geralt exchanged a look.

"I know it's a lot to ask but-"

"Of course I'll help, Geralt," interrupted Eskel. He turned on the spot to face him, hand still under his jaw. "The problem is that I'm not sure how."

"By doing what you do best, silly. Fighting." Ciri gestured towards the two blades hanging from his back.

"Fighting what, exactly?" asked the third Witcher snidely, making a wide gesture with his arms before folding them across his chest. "Don't suppose these nightmares would be kind enough to take the form of something we actually know how to kill." Nobody answered. "No, didn't think so."

"Lambert!" warned Keira, fixing him with a look that spoke volumes.

He threw his arms up. "What? Someone here has to be realistic because it seems that these two bloody idiots have completely lost their minds." He pointed towards Ciri and Geralt, the latter of whom was beginning to rise to his feet. "What do you want me to say? That this will all work fine? It won't. You're all about to sail up shit creek without a paddle, a map or a fucking sail."

"If you don't want to join us Lambert, then go," said Geralt coldly, looking at his brother with an unrelenting stare.

"I really wish it was that fucking easy," spat Lambert, spinning the dagger between his fingers, "but when have I ever been as bloody lucky as that?"

"If you don't want to help, then there's nothing keeping you here."

"Really, you think so Geralt? Nothing at all?"

Geralt grunted angrily. Lambert had always gotten on his nerves, but now his patience was thinner than ever. "I haven't got time for your games, Lambert," said Geralt through gritted teeth. He took a step closer but he was stopped by Eskel's hand on his shoulder. The other Witcher shook his head.

"Be realistic, Geralt," stated Lambert, completely ignoring Keira who was shooting daggers at him. "We don't stand a fucking chance against him. Do you remember what happened last time we tried to fight him? No, you probably don't want to, so let me tell you. We almost died, Geralt. We almost died trying to fight that bastard who was only there because you tried to confront him in the first place. And you want to do the whole fucking thing over. I'm beginning to think I'm more likely to be killed because of one of your stupid ideas than I am to die in the middle of some swamp with my innards spilling out."

"Then why are you still here, Lambert?" growled Geralt, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Because I want you to know that I think you're an ugly fucking dumb ass, that you're completely deranged and that I hate you before your half-cocked rescue plan gets me killed." Geralt looked at Lambert as though he'd never seen him before, treating the Witcher's offered hand as though it was an alien object. "I'll help, just wanted to make it clear than when I die, it's entirely your fault."

Geralt chuckled before shaking his hand.

"You're a prick, Lambert."

"And you're a hypocrite, Geralt."

* * *

Within the next couple of weeks, a collection of people began to arrive at the doors of Corvo Bianco, either under their own steam or through the collective work of Triss, Ciri and Keira. A group of mercenaries who owed Lambert a favour for god knows what - nobody wanted to ask. Zoltan and several barrels of his extremely volatile Mahakam mix. Hjalmar and a handful - of what he claimed to be - the best warriors Skellige had ever seen; all anyone else was certain of is that they were the loudest drinkers. Shani and a couple of medical students she was about to throw straight in at the deep end with on-hand experience. Rita, Dorregaray and Fringilla, and much to everyone's surprise, Philippa Eilhart, all appeared out of the blue in the courtyard causing quite a start. The latter seemed to be fuming from head to toe, and Triss, who was avoiding her like the plague, seemed to be the only one not astonished by her arrival. Some of the priestesses Nenneke had contacted managed to make their way to Toussaint and each arrived with a handful of very rare plants they had collected along the way. Their forces had grown to such a phenomenal size that the estate could no longer cope with the capacity forcing the bedrolls to spill out of the cellar and onto the courtyard, orchard and surrounding fields where several large tents were now erected.

The study and library of the main house had been turned into a war room where the Master of the estate and his trusted 'generals' dished out orders to their forces. The halcyon ambiance of the estate had been torn to shreds and trampled underneath the boots of warriors practicing their craft and by the hammers and saws of men and women building temporary fortifications and defences around Corvo Bianco. Flags of numerous colours and designs jittered on the end of sturdy poles dug into the earth, so they could proudly bear the crest of all those worthy knights who had come to deliver their aid. Amongst them, the crest of a Duchess who longed to see the lost Sorceress, dare she say a lost friend, return and for good to triumph; she pledged her aid to make sure it was so.

Geralt kept himself busy in the dwindling days leading up to the battle. He filled the armoury with Witcher potions and bombs and polished and sharped every piece of weapon and armour he could find within it, ensuring that they were placed in good hands to aid the fight. He travelled to Novigrad, Oxenfurt, Vengerberg, Beauclair, Maribor and Gors Velen to purchase herbs and ingredients to aid the healers and mages. He trained with Ciri and the other Witchers rigorously, getting his body and mind back into shape. He slept on the floor beside his beloved every night until eventually the last grain of sand gave into the force of gravity. The day of reckoning had come.

* * *

Geralt was up at the crack of dawn, waiting. Waiting for the two Mirrors to appear so they could begin. Ciri had joined him on the balcony and the two ate a measly breakfast, unable to stomach much food due to the queasiness they had become lumbered with. Today was a big day. Perhaps the biggest of their lives. Failure, though probable, was not an option. They waited on the balcony for their necessary but unwelcome guests to arrive, the first of which, was the Duchess.

Apparently, she felt that the offer of some of her best knights and vast resources was not enough and that something more needed to be given to this most noble course. Regrettably, the Duchess had decided that her personal help, in other words her presence during the battle, alongside the presence of her sister, Syanna, was the only thing of worth the Dutchy had left to give. Nothing could sway the Duchess, she ignored all claims of danger, jeopardy and chaos with the justification that good would surely triumph and that it was the duty of her bloodline to see this through.

After the Duchess and Syanna had pledged their assistance and retreated to do whatever it was they probably thought was going to be helpful, the waiting game continued. However, the next few guests to arrive were not the Mirrors, instead, but rather two more pleasant faces.

"Regis, my old friend," said Geralt overcoming his astonishment to shake the vampire's hand and embrace him. "It's good to see you. Didn't think you'd been able to come."

"Why? Because of the imminent threat of death looming over me?" joked the barber surgeon, straightening his satchel and grinning in a way that gave a whole new definition to a toothy smile. "A mere trifle in comparison to your plight, dear friend. How is everything?"

"Well-" The vampire held up a hand to stop him and raised an eyebrow.

"And by that, I mean, how are you holding up?" added Regis, looking at him expectantly, as though the question he had proposed was in any way straightforward.

The Witcher sighed. He didn't want to think about that right now, but his friend would not back down without a fight. "Honestly, I don't know."

He heard the vampire chuckle sadly and felt Regis' fragile hand and remarkably strong grip on his shoulder. "A perfectly reasonable answer, given the circumstances. I must say that even I am bemused by it all, but still, I will offer my assistance where I can."

Geralt nodded gratefully. Despite the vampire's jovial manner, the Witcher was well aware of the risks his friend was taking in coming back to Corvo Bianco. Perhaps once upon a time, he would have turned Regis away, but now he simply pushed aside the notion. Concern for his friend would always be back of the mind, but it was overshadowed by the thought of what failure would cost him. What it would cost Yennefer. He was willing to put a friend in harms way and the realisation of that fact deeply troubled him.

"Regis," looking over his shoulder, Geralt saw Ciri ambling out of the house towards them, "long time no see. Come here." Foregoing all the courtly formalities and courtesies she had been afforded by her inheritance, Ciri threw her arms around barber surgeon's neck, pulling him into a big embrace. "It's good to finally see you again, though I can't say the circumstances are much better than the last time we met."

Regis chuckled faintly and leant back on his heels, hands hooked around his satchels. "Well, at least there aren't presently any blood crazed Mages running around calling for our most imminent demise." He threw a glance towards the fracas in the orchard. Judging by the high-pitched screeching and unstoppable tide of swearing which made up the most prominent noises in the ruckus, Keira had almost crushed Lambert with one of the defences because she had been staring at her reflection in an illusionary mirror. "But perhaps it would be best not to hold out too much hope on that. Though, if at all possible, I would prefer not to be vaporized again, I've grown rather fond of this more solid form. It really would be a shame to have to start again from scratch."

Geralt could still vividly recall the memory of Regis' grotesque smear on the walls and floor of Stygga Castle as well as the repulsive stench. "So, have I. No offence Regis, but you make for one ugly puddle."

They all chuckled. Before this moment, Geralt would have thought such a thing was impossible on a day like this. The vampire, however, never ceased to amaze him.

"It's a fair comment, no offence taken friend. Now," said Regis, walking away from the house and beckoning the others to follow which they did without question. "I believe I must confess the reason for my delay in arriving." The Witcher didn't say anything but watched Regis' back closely as they moved past the barricades and further from the house. "Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to say, who, is the reason for my untimely arrival," he said several seconds later.

Geralt tensed involuntarily, eyes darting back and forth across the fields. He could feel Ciri watching him. "Regis, if this is another one of your vampire friends, I'm not interested." One of his scars tingled slightly at the recollection.

"I can assure you, Geralt," said the vampire, turning around and holding his arms out, "that this friend of mine is far from dangerous, as you already know."

The vines behind Regis rustled and when a flamboyant figure emerged from behind the luscious green leaves the Wither was torn between a groan and sigh. The result of which was an indistinguishable sound that made Ciri raise an eyebrow.

* * *

Patrick O'Leary - _The Gift_ : **Chapter 10, Unexpected Arrivals**

Do you know what vengeance is, Tim? It is a dark mirror in which we cannot see ourselves."

* * *

Hello! Hope you liked this chapter; the Witcher brothers back together again. This brings me on to something I wanted to clear up because I've had some questions about it. The forces that have gathered at Corvo Bianco aren't going to fight O'Dimm, that's not their purpose. Instead, they are there to protect the bodies as the 'travellers' aka Ciri and Geralt, go into O'Dimm's realm as souls. It is the 'travellers' who must defeat this devil and they can only do this within the Realm of glass through discovering and exploiting his weakness. While Master Mirror cannot leave his realm – because he is brothers and sisters have condemned him – he can send servants after the bodies and by destroying them, force the souls out of his Realm. That is the only way to force them out. Thus, the bodies need protection.

We're getting closer and closer towards the heart of this story – O'Dimm's Realm. I might be posting sneak peeks of this on my Tumblr soon, I'm looking forward to it soooooo much. I only regret its taken 15 chapters to get there but I hope the wait will be worth it 😊

See you next week!


	10. Unexpected Guests

**Patrick O'Leary -The Gift: Chapter 10, Unexpected Arrivals**

Do you know what vengeance is, Tim? It is a dark mirror in which we cannot see ourselves."

* * *

"Dandelion?" The bard's gaudy smile faltered for a second as the Witcher narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here? If anyone sees you-"

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt," the Bard interrupted, waving a bejewelled and dainty hand in the air as though swatting away gnats. "Now, is that any way to treat an old friend? I have travelled a great distance to get here, and - of course - at great personal risk." The Witcher grunted. Now that Dandelion was on a roll there wasn't any hope of stopping him without causing a commotion. "But of course nothing was going to stop me from being by my friend's side during his great hour of need. Though you seemed to have forgotten to request my assistance, I am - nevertheless - here to offer it to you, Geralt. This is one battle I do not intend to miss." He held his head up and smiled pompously.

Geralt buried his head in one hand and took a long, deep breath. When he opened his eyes, Dandelion had started to move past him and towards the house, the Witcher held out an arm to stop him.

"Dandelion," he began in a hushed and warning tone, "if the Duchess catches you…"

Dandelion brushed off Geralt's hand and began sauntering up the gravelly path. "Always so terribly optimistic, aren't you Geralt?" he said sarcastically. "Don't worry, I'm sure Anna will find it in her heart to forgive me; I am, after all, here for selfless reasons." The Witcher knew Dandelion too well to be fooled so readily by his confident façade. He distinctly heard the bard swallow.

Geralt cast a look at Ciri over his shoulder; she shrugged. "Dandelion, wait."

"Geralt, please." The bard pivoted on the spot and clenched his jaw. "I know what you're going to say. But I can tell you now that nothing will make me change my mind." He placed a hand on his hips and held a fist to his chest. "I want to help, Geralt. I want to help you and…And I want to help Yennefer. Don't, Geralt, I know what you're going to ask." He pointed his finger in the Witcher's direction. "Why? Why would I want to help Yennefer, after all the things I've said over the years? Why, because I was unfair to her and to you. I realise that now, I realised that a little over two years ago. I regret it deeply and I feared that my realisation had come all too late, but now," he gestured towards the fortified estate looming over them, "I have a chance to make amends, to repay her."

They remained silent as Dandelion's monologue finished. Then, Dandelion took several purposefully strides until he was face to face with the Geralt.

"A long time ago, Yennefer thanked me. Yes, me of all people, Geralt," he added as the Witcher's eyebrow twitched. "It's a hard truth to believe, but a truth nevertheless. Yennefer thanked me, Geralt, for being your companion; for being by your side when she was not and for being your friend. I owe her, Geralt, I owe your beloved and Ciri's mother for ever doubting what there was between you. Which is why I will not let you face this alone."

The Witcher, who had his arms crossed, looked at Dandelion. Something echoed in the back of his mind, something Priscilla had said to him while he was hunting for Ciri in Novigrad. At the time, he thought it to be utter nonsense. Why? Because she had called him responsible. There were limited ways in which one could link words together, and the words 'Dandelion' and 'responsible' did not (to his mind), have any such plausible links. But now, he wondered if Priscilla had been right. Well, partly at least.

Geralt watched his friend for a moment, then clapped the man on the back. "Thank you, Dandelion." His shoulders sagged and he nodded at Geralt.

The group of unlikely companions made their way back up towards the estate and, with the combined efforts of Regis, Ciri, Geralt and Syanna, they were able to convince the Duchess to do the impossible. She forgave Dandelion. Only momentarily mind you because even miracles have their limitations. And so Dandelion, under the supervision of two guards at all times, was permitted to stay on the estate and only on the estate for the time being.

* * *

When the morning slowly began to transform into midday, there was still no sign of either merchant. It was beginning to set the Witcher's nerves on edge. He retreated from the house and went far from the preparations. After several minutes searching for something, he eventually found it. Peace.

Geralt settled down to meditate beside the small, glittering stream which flowed through the estate, pleasantly reflecting the sun's rays. Geralt listened to the gurgle of the stream, to the drops of water tumbling over the stones and rushing between the fertile soil. The simplistically beautiful melody helped ease his mind, as though his worries had been swept away, if only for a short while.

"How much longer are they going to keep us waiting, Witcher?"

The owner's voice was as cold as the shadow she cast on his motionless body as they loomed over him with malice. The calming melody which filled him went silent at her presence, and with it slowly trickled everything else, carried away by the stream. For a brief second, he considered ignoring her, but he dismissed the idea immediately. Geralt knew that she wouldn't be convinced that he couldn't hear her in his meditative state and given the foul mood she'd been in since arriving, it would have been very short-sighted for him to test her patience.

"I don't know, Philippa," he drawled quietly, without opening his eyes.

He heard her scoff. "Witcher, are you even capable of giving a definitive answer?" she snapped shrilly. He didn't answer. "How or why Yennefer has put up with you over all these years alludes me; your monotone answers make for such dull and quite frankly painful conversation."

"To be perfectly honest, I blame my present company." He didn't have to open his eyes to know that Philippa was sneering at him. Though, if he was being candid, he didn't care.

"Perfectly charming as always, I see," gibed the Sorceress. For a moment Geralt's hope soared as he heard her walk away, long dress gliding over the rich green grass. However, that hope soon plummeted. "Really, Geralt, is this how you treat your guests? I am, after all, risking my life for your dead fiancé."

Geralt opened his eyes, narrowing his mutated pupils to accommodate for the glaring Toussaint sun which stood alone in the cloudless sky. "And your fellow Sorceress," he said, clutching both the unused wedding band and medallion which hung around his neck as he climbed to his feet with ease. "Don't make yourself out to be altruistic, Philippa - it doesn't suit you."

She laughed unpleasantly. "Well, perhaps there lies the one thing we can finally agree upon, Witcher," said Philippa over her shoulder, crimson lips upturned in a malicious smile.

As silence fell, the two predators continued to stare each other down, neither wanting to be the first to back down. Instead, the decision was made for them.

"Master Geralt! Master Geralt!"

A freckled and lanky young man was hurtling up the path towards them, beads of sweat rolling down his ruddy cheeks.

"Who is that lunatic, Geralt?" asked Philippa. She raised a hand to her eyes as they followed his frantic movements. "It would appear that he knows you, rather unsurprisingly I might add. The company you keep, Witcher."

Insults aside, Philippa was right; he was one of the workers of the vineyard. "Hiameil!" called out Geralt, hurrying over towards the half-elf. "Hiameil, what's wrong?" As they neared each other, the Witcher held out his arms to steady the young man whose knees practically buckled under him. "Deep breaths, Hiameil, calm yourself." The half-elf nodded and hauled himself up straight, sucking in several deep breaths, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "What did you need to say?"

"We, we saw," he began slowly, still panting heavily, "the other workers…and I, we saw, saw… that, that mage. The, the…one you, warned us…about. We, think we did."

The Witcher narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Where, Hiameil? Tell me."

"Just, just…by our vineyards…he, had a horse…I took a shortcut, through the, fields…but-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, Geralt was hurtling towards the house.

* * *

Many heads turned in his direction with alarm as he rushed through the gate in the barricade and up the courtyard, his feet upturning dust and mud as he ran across the stone. His heart was pounding loudly, ringing in his ears; Geralt couldn't hear the voices calling after him as he wrenched open the front door. He clambered up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the wood creaking under his weight. He threw himself against the bedroom door practically knocking it off its hinges. What he saw made his blood begin to boil.

Shoulder length dark hair brushed the top of his black robes which were spilling over the sheets as he perched on the edge of the bed, towering over the sleeping figure beside him. A slightly wrinkled hand was protruding from one of his long, billowing sleeves. Hardened fingers were fastened around a small, pale hand belonging to the resting maiden. The figure's other cold hand cupped her face as he caressed her cheek while she was unable to protest. Geralt could see the mage smiling sickeningly at her as his unworthy eyes gazed upon Yennefer.

When Istredd's dirty grey eyes finally looked up from the sleeping angel, Geralt had already thundered across the room. For a split second, they made eye contact. The Witcher saw too much. He felt revolted. He saw the ravenous look which had haunted Yennefer's dreams and left marks on her skin. He saw where the maniac had already taken her in his mind's eye - just as he had before. The heat emanating from Istredd's body infuriated him in a way nothing else ever could. His hands twitched with anticipation. Swords would have been too easy. Geralt pounced.

Grabbing him by the collar, the Witcher hauled the mage off the bed and threw him across the room. His heart pounded against his chest like a caged animal as boiling hot blood coursed through his veins. His fury overpowered his senses like a toxin, making his mind crave the smell of blood and the feeling of that warm liquid staining his fingers. Geralt balled his shaking hand into a fist and smashed it into Istredd's face with all the force he could muster. He growled with satisfaction at the feeling of his knuckle colliding with soft flesh, at the sound of agony and bones snapping. Istredd's blood began to trickle down his nose and there was a smattering of liquid coating Geralt's knuckles. The animal within him howled but his appetite was far from sated.

Pain for pain, the scale must be balanced. The brutality of Istredd's punishment must be no less severe than the harm he inflicted upon his victim. Upon his Yen and what he did to her that night. When Geralt looked into the man's eyes he saw no remorse - judgement was passed. Only when the cobblestones flowed with Istredd's blood would this monster's execrable crime have been fairly punished. Only Istredd's death would sate Geralt's bloodlust and avenge Yennefer's pain.

He struck again and let out an atavistic snarl. No sound escaped the criminal's lips, struck unconscious by the first blow. Geralt felt a pang of despair, then regret. The first strike should not have been so hard. He would have preferred that the man stay awake during his reckoning, so that he could feel each punch and kick and to feel his bones snap and his lifeblood escape his demonic vessel. But still, if Istredd prayed that unconsciousness would save him - he was sorely mistaken. The third strike connected with Istredd's chest, breaking at least two or three ribs.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Geralt's capacity for anger was somehow increased inconceivably by the sound of Mistress' Mirror's vexing voice. His knuckles whitened as he clenched his fist, nails digging into his calloused flesh, arms shaking. He focused his narrowed eyes on the two outwardly unassuming merchants as drops of blood trickled down his stained hands and onto Istredd's unconscious and unfortunately still-breathing form.

Geralt bared his teeth. "I don't see why not," he spat.

While he didn't for a second believe that the two Mirrors were afraid of him, they did, for once, refrain from coming any closer. Though everything else about their manner and appearance was still characteristically denigrating.

"Because, Geralt, out of all the forces you have gathered, five of you alone have a connection to Yennefer's lost soul which is strong enough to enable you to enter O'Dimm's Realm. Five, Geralt. Five lives and five chances to save her. Because he, Geralt," insisted Un Wake, gesturing towards Istredd's mangled face, "is one of the only people who knows Lady Yennefer well. Because you-"

"No!" hissed Geralt through gritted teeth, brandishing his fist. He knew where this was going, what they were about to propose. He wouldn't allow it. He couldn't. "I don't want his help."

Master Mirror gradually walked forwards with his hands in front of him. The Witcher followed his movements closely like a wild animal. "But the fact remains, Geralt," he said in what he undoubtedly thought was a friendly tone, "that if you want to save your beloved Yennefer…You need it."

Logic and emotion, an impossible conflict for a Witcher was evoked with those three words. A struggle which defied what was supposedly his biological destiny. Geralt tore his gaze from the two merchants still hovering near the foot of the bed and looked down at the piece of meat on the floor. He was still holding Istredd's collar in one hand with a vice-like grip. His nose was broken, and blood was still leaking from it in a heavy stream. He would surely have a black eye later. But the sight before him was far from the image Geralt had conjured in his mind that day on Thanedd. When he had seen Yennefer's red cheek and the finger-like bruise marks on her upper arm, when he heard her screaming for him to stop in her sleep. The fear in her eyes when she had awoken, the way she had at first flinched at his touch. He had known Istredd to be a monster. He had warned him to stay away.

But, back then, Geralt had considered himself to be different from the animal before him...

* * *

W.C. Fields: **Chapter 11, Old 'Friends'**

"I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally."

* * *

Hello, my lovely friends and readers! Hope you enjoyed this update, two unexpected guests in one chapter…But hold onto your horses! There are more people yet to join the party, just you wait and see. Did you enjoy seeing Istredd getting a little piece of what he deserves as much as I did? If anyone reads BellumGerere's 'A Wolf Among Lilacs' like I do, then that scene is even more satisfying to read (and you'll all know why…). If you haven't read it then go do that know! Should still be an update next Sunday; get ready for some Philippa POV for the next chapter or two. Also, I'm writing chapter 15 as we speak and this is the chapter when they enter the Realm of Glass – just to let you know :)

Please feel free to comment, leave kudos and like and share (especially on Tumblr!) I really want to know how you guys feel about this story. You can also drop me questions about this fic anytime on here or on Tumblr. Sometime you might be lucky and get a spoiler or hint out of me :D Thank you to my betas DaisyofGalaxy (Archive and Fanfiction) and Dabbles in Crayon (Fanfiction) for all your amazing help.

PS: Sorry this chapter is late. Couldn't upload it for some reason last week and the completely forgot to try again :( Oops!


	11. Old 'Friends'

W.C. Fields: **Chapter 11, Old 'Friends'**

"I am free of all prejudice. I hate everyone equally."

* * *

Philippa flew through an open window and into the bedroom, gliding straight over to the bed. Materializing in a puff of smoke she sat on the bed, leant over Yennefer and muttered a quick incantation. Her hands glowed faintly with warm white light as she moved them over her body while searching for any visible injuries. Seeing none, she drew her attention to their surroundings and remained alert. With his head start, the Witcher would surely have gotten here first, yet there was no sign of him. That meant that either he had been too late to catch Istredd, that the Mage was yet to arrive, or that he had been apprehended in time.

It didn't take long for the spell to reassure Philippa that the former of those possibilities was improbable. The woman lying on the bed was most definitely Yennefer, not an illusion or polymorph, and she was unharmed. Well, besides the fact she was dead, of course. The Sorceress sighed softly.

Philippa looked once more at Yennefer, hesitated, then left the room in silence.

* * *

Carefully she slipped out of the house, thankful that no one noticed her because of the fracas going on in the courtyard. She flew out of the back of the house and circled around until she was between the vineyards and the main building. Disappearing behind one of the houses she transformed back into her natural form. She took a moment to compose herself and then made her way up the cobblestone.

Whereas the courtyard had, until then, been bustling with people going this way and that, it was now the stage upon which a small crowd had gathered. But, as she neared this group, the term 'lynch mob' becoming increasingly more appropriate, she could smell blood.

She stopped just short of the group and folded her arms. "What's this?" she jeered, making a gesture towards the crowd as she moved closer. "Have we decided to turn on each other so soon? A shame, truly. I was just beginning to think that Triss might actually prove me wrong, but I suppose some things are destined to never change."

Part of the gathering, which had fallen into hushed whispers, parted to allow her through. Mostly, they were faces she didn't recognise and Philippa was pleased to see that they were looking at her with an indication of fear in their eyes. It was good to know even in this unholy sunny part of the word, her charm still worked. As she neared the heart of the argument, she saw him.

"Istredd," spat Philippa, as though the name let a foul taste in her mouth.

He narrowed his eyes. "Philippa," he replied. His words weighted with equal bitterness as he held his head up.

The Sorceress took one look at his dishevelled visage and chuckled. "It's good to see you looking so…well. I presume the Witcher gave you the welcome you deserved." She smiled spitefully at him. "Where did you find him?" she asked, addressing Geralt.

She saw his fists shuddering by his sides. "In the bedroom," he replied without looking at her.

Philippa felt disgusted and glowered at the lecherous Mage. "Perhaps I was wrong to assume that his intrusion had been justly disciplined. I must ask, Witcher, why he is thus still standing," she drawled. Someone behind her sighed deeply.

"Because we need him."

Philippa snapped her head back round so fiercely that her ponytails whipped her cheeks. She managed to comport herself calmly while speaking. "I'm finding it hard to believe a single word in that sentence, Geralt."

"That makes two of us," huffed Ciri. She was standing with her hands on her hips, the spitting image of Yennefer whenever the Sorceress was unsatisfied with something. Both women rounded their eyes on the Witcher.

Geralt rubbed his eyes wearily, revealing the blood stains on his hands. "Please, Ciri," he begged turning towards the girl. "If there was another choice, I'd take it. I don't want him here, but that doesn't matter. Not anymore. He can help, Ciri, that's what's important." There was an awkward silence. "You…You don't think that I really want him here…Do you?"

"No, no of course not Geralt," she answered quickly, casting her eyes to the floor. "I'm just afraid that he'll do more harm than good."

"Because he will," stated Philippa, "he cannot be trusted." She took several unhurried and deliberate steps towards Istredd, never breaking eye contact.

"Leave it, Philippa," he warned under his breath, leaning forwards slightly.

"Before you make any decisions, Witcher, there is something you should know about this venomous. Little. Snake," she said provokingly, enjoying the sight of Istredd's increasingly apprehensive face. "Something about that night on Thanedd…"

* * *

 _One of the perks of being headmistress was that she had eyes and ears all over Aretuza. She was confident that Istredd was still in his room despite the death sentence Yennefer had hung above his head. Philippa needed to know why._

 _As she neared his door she reduced her pace and was cautious about the sound of her high heels tapping against the stone. Warily, she inched closer and pressed her back up against the cold stone wall. She spoke an incantation and felt the ward activate. She acted quickly._

 _From inside the room she heard what sounded like faint swearing, the volume of which increased dramatically as she flung open the door. With elegance and precision, she cast her attack and the Mage was hurled against the wall, hitting the stones with a thud. Istredd was kept from sagging to the floor by Philippa's magic which roughly held him up by the collar._

 _With glee, the Sorceress watched Istredd struggle knowing that his efforts would be futile. "A new addition to the school," she commented, pointing with a crimson, glossy fingernail to the runes pulsing with faded luminescence. "Do you like them, Istredd? With one simple spell either Rita or I can erect the dormant ward in any room or building on Thanedd. It completely suppresses any magic that isn't our own." She laughed nastily at the Magician as he thrashed around wildly and continued muttering spells and insults. "You've grown not only lascivious but imprudent as well; too long living alone, I presume."_

 _"What is the meaning of this!" he fumed, a vein in his neck throbbing violently._

 _Philippa tutted stridently, gently shaking her head and wagging her finger in his blustering face. "Don't play me for a simpleton, Istredd, I will not be beguiled so easily. You've spent far too long living amongst the peasants and nobility in that quaint and dull little town of yours - or perhaps it was a measly village, it's so easy to forget - that you've overlooked the fact that you are amongst your superiors here."_

 _"Forgive me," said Istredd sardonically, flashing his teeth, "I shall rephrase my question to suit my most honourable company. What the fuck is the meaning of this, you Sorceress whore?"_

 _Philippa scoffed. "You truly are a most charming man, Istredd. It's clear to see why dear Yennefer," she saw his eyes narrow, "has run straight back into your expectant arms, after all this time you've spent waiting and longing for her." She took a step back and watched the Mage's face contort with such vehemence he seemed unable to articulate his rage. "Oh, but I think I'm mistaken. That's not what happened is it, Istredd? Yennefer didn't want to run away with you, did she? She didn't choose you over the Witcher-"_

 _"Don't you dare," interrupted the Sorcerer, eyes popping madly, "use that vile word in my presence. You sicken me with the mention of that most unnatural and wicked, abomination. I-"_

 _Philippa flicked her wrist and at once the room went silent. Istredd opened and closed his mouth, but no more words passed his lips. Though his deportment was more than enough to convey his animosity._

 _Philippa straightened a ruffle in her skirt. "I grow tired of your banal insults, Istredd. As I was saying; Yennefer has abandoned you, left you for another. For the Witcher, no less…And that is precisely why you're still here."_

 _The sounds of Istredd struggling against her magic followed Philippa as she gradually stepped away from him and towards the open trunk he had been huddled over before her arrival. There were items strewn all over the floor, dispersed amongst pieces of glass from the shattered mirror which had hung on the wall and various pieces of wood and battered draws. Stooping over, Philippa peered inside the mostly empty trunk and found what she was looking for. She bent over and pulled out a large knapsack._

 _She brought it into Istredd's view. "I'm curious to see," she said, fiddling with the buckle which was keeping the bag closed, "why you intend to leave Thanedd with less than you came with. Why is it, Istredd, that rather than packing your trunks, you have decided to leave this place with only a backpack." She didn't wait for an answer, unbuckling the flap_

 _nimbly with one hand. "Well, let's see, shall we?" She opened the flap._

 _The Mage's pupils dilated as Philippa plunged her hand inside. After taking a brisk look and rummage, she walked over to the bed and emptied the bag's contents onto it. Perching on the edge of the mattress, she spread the objects out over the quilt and examined them closely, one by one. What she saw made her face screw up with disgust._

 _"I'm finding it hard to determine what's worse. Thinking that this is what you had planned for your reunion if things went well, or if this was your back-up plan for when things turned sour." Firmly clutching something in both hands she stormed up to him. She threw the two items at his feet. A long heap of rope and a thick black piece of cloth. "That gag is just Yennefer's colour, don't you think, Istredd?"_

 _He glared at her. "Ropes, a gag, knock-out potions," she listed disdainfully, leaning over him, "money, notes on invisibility spells and two talismans with concealment and illusionary charms of very high magic. You've stocked up well Istredd. I daresay your plan to kidnap Yenna, 'your beloved', would have gone off without a hitch. But unfortunately for you, it won't." Without breaking eye contact, Philippa flicked her wrist and the villain's supplies began to smoke._

 _"Stop! Stop!" he bellowed as the spell which had held his tongue was lifted. "Don't do this Philippa! Do you know what you are condemning Yenna to? Stop this now, and I might yet save her from that, thing; from the life he has imprisoned her in!" She did not reply. "Please, Philippa, please stop. I beg you."_

 _Philippa watched as Istredd tried to fight the invisible hand pinning him to the wall. It still smelt of lilac and gooseberries. "Could you possibly be any more hypocritical if you tried?" she asked rhetorically. When the Sorcerer aimed a hysterical punch at her, she didn't even flinch. The blow was well off its mark. "Have you truly fallen so low, Istredd – fist-fighting?"_

 _Ignoring the man's abuses, she watched with content as Istredd's heinous belongings were reduced to ash. With another incantation, even that vanished. However, Philippa knew that his victim was far from safe and that wasn't good enough for her. She needed to see this through._

 _Istredd stopped struggling, his posture deflated. "No…No…Yenna, please forgive me. I have failed you…I'm sorry…" he murmured, staring at the small string of smoke which was all that remained of his tools_

 _Philippa watched him closely, saw his shoulders slump as he mourned. Somehow, she felt even more revolted._

 _"Time to pack something else, Istredd," said Philippa. She lobbed the now-empty leather knapsack at his feet. "It's time for you to leave, alone."_

 _She released him. He landed ungainly, falling to his hands and knees. His well-groomed hair fell from his shoulders as he bowed his head to the floor, hiding his face from her. Philippa could hear him taking deep, shaky breaths._

 _When he raised his head, he was once again seething. "You will pay for this, Philippa Eilhart," he growled quietly, rising to his feet, spittle flying from his clenched jaw. "I will not let your interference go unpunished. Like that freak, you too will know pain. I will avenge Yenna's suffering. You will pay for preventing me from saving her this night, you will pay for the harm you have inadvertently sentenced her to."_

 _Her hands shook by an infinitesimal degree. "Then I look forward to seeing you again, Istredd. Have a safe journey." She spun on her heels and glided over to the door. "Oh, and Istredd," she added, half turning towards him, painted hands dripping the door frame, "I'll be watching - you can be sure of that. If you don't leave or if you go anywhere near Yenna…I'll know. If you're still anywhere in Gors Velen by dawn, I'll kill you personally." She looked away._

 _"Why?" She stopped just short of the threshold but didn't turn around. Istredd continued coldly. "Why stop me, Phillipa? Since when did you give a damn about what happened to her?"_

 _She slammed the door behind her._

* * *

Suzanne Collins - The Hunger Games: **Chapter 12, Trusting in Monsters**

"For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first."

* * *

Hello! Hope you enjoyed this Philippa POV, there will be more next week. I wonder…Does anyone hate Istredd even more now? I hope so.

Get ready for some more unexpected guests next week and the week after that…Don't look forward to it…Chapter 13 is not going to be a nice one, just to warn you.

Please comment, like, share, etc. I really want to know what people think and if you are enjoying my story ? Until next week!


	12. Trusting in Monsters

Suzanne Collins - _The Hunger Games:_ _ **Chapter**_ **12, Trusting in Monsters**

"For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first."

* * *

"So, Witcher, I urge you to reconsider your decision. Lest you wish for this weasel to stab you in the back and run off with your beloved. He'll clearly stop at nothing until he has her," concluded Philippa. She smiled at Istredd who had gone eerily quiet and looked around, breaking eye contact at last.

She watched as Geralt scrutinized her and she could practically hear the rusty cogs of reason churning in his mind. He stared off into the distance, arms crossed over his bulking chest as he undoubtedly questioned not just her tale but her rectitude too. It was something she was all too familiar with as a Sorceress and a politician. _But surely he would trust even me over that snake,_ she thought.

"Ciri," he muttered after a while, looking over his shoulder, "what do you think?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Honestly, Geralt, I don't know. I believe what Philippa says," she nodded towards the Sorceress who her tilted her head in a show of minute gratitude. "And the fact that we just found him mooning over Mother hardly bodes well, but…" she hesitated.

"But turning down his aid is not a risk we can afford to take."

O'Gurye nonchalantly stepped out from behind the main house and into the circle, clasping his hands behind his back. Philippa heard Geralt let out an exasperated sigh. Now she understood the influence behind his decision.

"Pleasure to see you again Master Witcher, Cirilla," chortled Master Mirror in his usual palsy-walsy manner. He bowed to his business partners. Geralt only grunted in reply. "Forgive my sister and I for our most untimely interruption earlier this day. We do so hate to impede your...Pleasure seeking," he looked at the bloodied mage, "but do not forget that we too have a stake in this. Thus, it would hardly be wise of us to allow you to pummel to death some potential and perhaps rather crucial aid, I might add. I'm sure you understand."

Nobody said anything at first, but somebody had to. "I still object to his presence here. We all know the man is driven by his groin rather than his head. Whatever logic might dictate to us, he surely doesn't hear and that makes him dangerous," stated Philippa.

Master Mirror stopped pacing around the clearing in the crowd and faced her. "Lady Eilhart, perhaps we can reach a compromise. If you allow Istredd to enter the Realm as we wish," he drew one hand from behind his back and held it out in front of him, "then we will ensure that while he is both there and on this estate, he is not in possession of his magic." He did the same thing with his other hand as the mage in question protested pointlessly. "I believe that this will, at least to a degree, suit both our desires. Do you agree?" O'Gurye's grin broadened.

Philippa frowned slightly. The loss of his magic would doubtfully do anything to mitigate Istredd's intention or his motivation. He could still pose a threat to her, but at least, perhaps, a far less formidable one. Especially if she took the right precautions to protect her.

The Sorceress nodded. "I accept your terms."

"Splendid," he brought his outstretched hands together and clapped.

There was a brief scream. Istredd clutched at his face, smoke leaking through his fingers. His hands dropped to his side unveiling a small brand on his left cheek. Istredd was panting heavily. Despite what Philippa had anticipated, the Sorcerer did not explode with fury.

"Then let it be so," he agreed reticently, tenderly running a finger over the mark. "If it means I can help Yenna…Then let it be so." Ciri and Geralt both tensed.

"Well, now that matter has been dealt with, I believe it is time to clarify our plan of action." He coughed, clearing his throat and held up a hand. "First," he put up one finger, "let's talk about the proxies. Geralt, Ciri, Triss, Dandelion, Istredd and Philippa," she gasped quietly but quickly closed her mouth," can enter O'Dimm's realm and only them. They are tasked with making their way to the heart of the Realm of Glass and defeating our dear brother so that we might imprison him. We cannot tell you how to achieve victory; you must work this out alone. Second," he put up another finger, "the defenders. Whoever is left on the estate must guard the bodies at all costs. Destroying them is the only way O'Dimm can force the proxies to leave his domain so it is probable that he will send servants after them. Third," another finger, "the time has come for you to meet the last two members of this higgledy-piggledy force."

He adjusted some of the straps on his belt, two of the bottles hanging from it clinking together. Then he bowed and swept his left arm in a melodramatic gesture towards the vineyards. Philippa followed his directions, and gasped. Though she was quick to comport herself with dignity again. His sister, Mistress Mirror, was walking up to the epicentre of activity in Corvo Bianco. Behind her, was a monster. Quite how their presence has gone unknown to them thus far would always remain a mystery.

"Witchy-Thingy!" shouted a gravelly, inhuman voice.

The ground shook gently as a rock troll the size of a horse plodded up jovially towards the men and women standing in the courtyard. The crowd was quick to disperse and spread themselves out, yelling deafeningly. Several reached for their swords.

The Witcher made no such movement as he walked towards the foolhardy beast. "Bert," he said, betraying his familiarity with this cumbersome creature. "How are you? Still have your shiny stone?"

"Yes! Yes! Bert shinystone got. Shinystone safe, Bert hide," he said, rocking slightly from side to side with fervour. "Hide said Magic-Elfy, Bert did. Miss her…" The ugly and pained expression of the Troll's face, which she presumed was meant to be a sad frown, made Philippa want to laugh. Luckily, she had more sense than that. "Happy wooman said again Bert see Elfie. Yes, yes! Man bad hurt Elfie. Smash bad man, Bert like." He pummelled one fist into the ground and the cobblestone cracked.

Geralt chuckled. "Don't worry, Bert, there will be plenty of bad man to smash, thumb and wallop." The troll bobbed his head stupidly and the others seemed to calm down a bit, but people kept casting nervous looks at him.

"Hey there Bert, I'm Ciri. I think I know a few people who would love to smash some bad man with you. Hjalmar," she added, catching Geralt's eye.

"Before you leave, Cirilla, there is another friend who would like to make your acquaintance," said Mistress Mirror.

A Rock Troll, thought Philippa. She looked at the Witcher who half-shrugged at her. We have a Rock Troll. Things can't possibly get any more bizarre and surreal than this. Even in Toussaint. How many monsters can one Witcher and Sorceress possibly know in person? Until then, Philippa had thought the answer to that question to be 'few indeed'. However, now she wasn't so sure. Perhaps a better question to ask would be 'which' monsters could they possibly know? Though Philippa wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to that.

All eyes turned to the sky.

The shape was hard to make out at first, the Southern sun misleading the eyes of those who tried to strain their necks for a glimpse. But whatever it was, it was heading towards them at an incredible speed. The barely subdued panic soon began to flare up again. Philippa wouldn't be surprised if, by now, they'd lost half a dozen men through desertion. _Why and what have I let myself in for,_ she pondered.

"A friend of yours and Lady Yennefer's, Master Geralt," said O'Gurye, "sends his regards and regrets that neither he nor his girls can intervene." Philippa saw the Witcher look at him quizzically for a moment them once more at the sky. Realisation flooded his features. "But Villentretenmerth says that one amongst his kin longs to return a favour."

"Geralt, Geralt," squealed Dandelion, choking on his own enthusiasm as he and a herbalist with grey hair and robes rounded a corner. Triss was not far behind them; it seems that the scene in the courtyard had drawn quite an audience now. "Do you know what that means? Could it be, Geralt?"

The Witcher smiled and nodded at the bard. "I think it is, Dandelion."

Before the Sorceress could bark at them for their vague and unexplanatory conversation, she was silenced by both the crowd, and her own awe. The mysterious shape began to dive from the clouds.

"Quick," yelled Geralt, waving and flapping his arms around, "move back and make some space. I said move back!" They didn't need asking twice.

While maintaining some self-esteem, Philippa scurried back to the house. Just as she was about to turn back around, a whoosh of air ruffled her skirt and swung her plaits. There was now a cacophony of screaming and shouting ricocheting around the estate.

She heard a deep rumble and a shiver ran up her spine. When she turned around, she found herself looking into the eyes of a true killer. But a beautiful one. It was roughly the size of a small hut and could most likely squeeze into Corvo Bianco's stables beside a horse or two. Dark green scales coated its menacing frame glinting albeit in the sunlight, all of them razor sharp. Gleaming white teeth filled its reptilian mouth which could tear a man to shreds. While the dragon's small but muscular neck was straight, he was probably about seven to eight feet tall.

When he saw the Witcher, it bowed its head. Even more unanticipated was the sound of its voice ringing in her mind. Somehow, despite the creature's appearance, it sounded innocent…. Childlike.

"Hello, Master Geralt. It's good to see you again," said the dragon with respect, raising its head from the floor.

"You've grown," he stated, slowly walking closer, "and I can see you've learned a lot from Villentretenmerth." He tapped a finger against the side of his head.

The dragon nodded its head, eyes glowing. "Yes, I have. I'm lucky to have learnt more than many of my kin. But…" he grumbled unhappily. "It still upsets me that, despite my wisdom, I will never have what they all do. My size…Whatever the humans did, it has forever stunted my growth…" the dragon trailed off.

Out of the corner of her eye, the Sorceress saw a flash of movement. "I'm sorry to hear that, truly," said Dandelion, cautiously tiptoeing over. Philippa noticed that he made sure to stand just a little behind the Witcher. She rolled her eyes to the sky. "Forgive our crudeness, honourable dragon, for we have yet to ask your name," he apologized, his voice cracking slightly as the gentleman in question tilted his head to the side like a lost puppy. Philippa never failed to be astounded by just how high-pitched Dandelion's whimpers could be.

In her head, Philippa was sure she heard the dragon giggle. "Funny bard with your fancy words," it chittered gently, poking Dandelion's shoulders with the tip of its snout. It chuckled again, alongside Geralt, Ciri and the herbalist, as Dandelion's knees knocked together. "I'm not royalty, friend. My name," replied the dragon, a puff of smoke drifting from his large nostrils, "is Iskierka, and I am here because I owe Lady Yennefer a debt. One that I will repay until the end of my days, gladly, because I also long to see her, Geralt. I feel your pain."

The Witcher didn't say anything, he just nodded. He didn't move as Iskierka stepped closer, but when the dragon bent its neck so that he was eye level with Geralt, the pair came together, resting their heads against each other. Geralt muttered something under his breath, and the creature nuzzled him, making the Witcher smile.

He then turned its stunning silver eyes to Ciri, who was standing beside the house, mouth ajar. "Yes, daughter of Yennefer, you may," he said kindly.

The young woman smiled and flung her arms around Iskierka's neck. The dragon affectionately rubbed its head against her.

As Ciri cuddled the beloved monster, Philippa was certain she heard a few sniffs and moans. She was about to make a scathing comment to one of the Skellige warriors wiping his eyes with his beard, but then it happened. The halcyon ambiance broke. Philippa froze.

The blue and empty sky suddenly began to blur and alter. From nothing, dark and brooding storm clouds were painted in this pretty picture. They swirled around the enchanted tree which grew above Yennefer's grave. Then, from amongst the darkening sky, a burst of light. The tree began to go up in flames. What she heard next made her blood curdle.

Yennefer's screams.

* * *

Sabaa Tahir - _An Ember in the Ashes:_ **Chapter 13, Reprobation**

There are two kinds of guilt. The kind that's a burden and the kind that gives you purpose. Let your guilt be your fuel. Let it remind you of who you want to be. Draw a line in your mind. Never cross it again. You have a soul. It's damaged but it's there. Don't let them take it from you."

* * *

Hello! Did you enjoy having a little bit more of Philippa's POV, oh and the dragon and rock troll as well? Always said we'd see Bert again! I've always been curious about what happened to the baby dragon in Bounds of Reason, guess this is my take on it.

Just a small warning about next week, the chapter will be pretty grisly, and I can't even say that next week is as bad as things get. Now that we're getting closer and closer to going into the Realm of Glass I just wanted to make it clear that it might contain certain issues and scenes of violence that people might find upsetting. I will put warnings on chapters that could contain anything distressing and I'll try to limit the detail so it's more of a tell rather than show if that makes sense.

Anyway, hopefully people will still be reading this next week…And after next week…Thanks as always to my betas and my readers for sticking with me. If you're reading this story, why not leave a comment and tell me what you think. I read a post on Tumblr which made a very good point: fanfiction writing is not free, it requires immense enthusiasm and one of the only ways to keep this enthusiasm up is to know people like your work ?


	13. Reprobation

Sabaa Tahir, An Ember in the Ashes: **Chapter 13, Reprobation**

"There are two kinds of guilt. The kind that's a burden and the kind that gives you purpose. Let your guilt be your fuel. Let it remind you of who you want to be. Draw a line in your mind. Never cross it again. You have a soul. It's damaged but it's there. Don't let them take it from you."

* * *

 **Warning**

This chapter contains scenes and descriptions of violence and torture that some readers might find distressing.

 **Warning**

This chapter contains subverted religious imagery that some readers might find offensive.

* * *

The scream pierced him like a knife and he felt as though his heart had stopped beating. Geralt's blood ran cold and a painful, icy shiver clawed its way up his spine. Dread breathed down his neck as it wrapped its talons around him, squeezing his chest and starving his lungs.

It tethered itself to him securely as the Witcher ran towards the tree. His feet were so used to the trek, he didn't have to spare a thought for where he was going; the journey was ingrained in every muscle. Instead, his mind became consumed with fear of what he might find beneath the boughs of the tree which watched over his beloved's grave. Her shrine.

As he drew nearer, he heard her again. Yennefer, and she was moaning in pain. It chilled his heart to the core, but he kept going.

Ash began to burn his eyes and small embers scolded his skin; the now dark midday sky was filled with dancing, amber lights. The fire was licking every leaf and blossom on the tree. It cast ghastly shadows across the solitary graveyard and transformed the once idyllic and peaceful sanctuary into a nightmarish scene. The scent of burning lilac and gooseberries and smoke filled his nostrils. The mix of sweetness, bitterness and death made his stomach churn. He grimaced.

Geralt could hear other people running after him, but he looked forwards. As he strained to look through the smoke, he noticed a figure.

He was clad in a plain yellow tunic and had two small bags slung across his chest, their straps overlapping. But the clothing was deceiving because the figure who wore them was far from normal. From human. His skin was as pale as a drained corpse, and in places where it was cracked like dried dirt, the edges glowed. It was as though skin had wrapped itself around burning coal. Dark veins wound themselves around his gaunt face and bare skin; they were as black as night. He had animalistic pupils carved out into narrow slits before his searing yellow eyes.

And they were fixed on him. "Greetings, Master Geralt. A pleasure to see you again," he bowed.

Gaunter O'Dimm smiled devilishly as Geralt approached. He was leaning nonchalantly against the flaming tree. While one hand was tugged into his bag strap, the other clutched a rusty looking hammer. It soon became clear why.

Geralt's eyes were drawn to the second figure. His heart sank like a stone and somewhere behind him, he heard Ciri sob.

A mess of long, wild, raven black curls matted with ash and blood cascaded around her, tumbling down her bare shoulders and obscuring part of her face. Her elegant dress was tattered and stained and, in places where it had once clung to her body, it was loose, hanging from her bony limbs. Her soft and immaculate skin was now marred with scars, burns, cuts and bruises. Fresh and old blood coated her body like an extra layer of skin. Her face was thinner than the body she had left behind, and it was bloodstained and dirty. She had a deep, diagonal gash on her forehead which started at just past the corner of her eyebrow and ended slightly off centre. Her lips were dry and split, and a little trickle of blood ran from the right corner of her mouth. She had a large bruise on one cheek and another on her jaw. Yennefer' eyes were screwed up in pain, head lowered.

Before the Witcher had reached the foot of the grave, he felt something force him back. He stumbled, but somebody caught him. As he looked more closely, he saw a circle scorched into the luscious grass. It surrounded the tree at its centre and it kept him at bay. He growled.

Yennefer's frail-looking body was propped up against the tree. Her legs and bare feet were tied together with heavy, black chains that dug into her skin. Her legs were bent slightly, she seemed unable to bear her own weight completely. Both arms were raised above her head, but she was not suspended by chains nor by rope. Her hands, fasted together by shackles, were stacked one on top of the other. The head of a nail protruded from her bloody palm. Geralt felt his knees go weak.

He longed more than anything in the world to help her, he felt his heart bleed for her. But at the moment, he knew that dream was unachievable, even without this damn circle. He didn't have to see the translucent quality of her form to know that, for now, he could not reach her.

A hammer smashed against the bark beside Yennefer's head. She jerked away instinctively and let out a cry as the movement strained her nailed hands. "Look up, my dear soul," sang Master Mirror, taking hold of a fistful of her hair in his right hand. "Someone is here to see you." Pulling at her head, he forced her gaze up.

He heard a sharp intake of breath. "…Geralt…Ciri…" she mouthed silently as her slight stature was shaken with ragged breaths, chest heaving. When O'Dimm let go of her hair, she held her head up. Despite everything, she was still breathtakingly beautiful. "…Triss…I…" Her violet eyes were wide, and they were perhaps the only thing about her visage that seemed entirely unaltered. Geralt drew strength from that.

"Yen," Geralt said softly, his toes practically touching the edge of the circle. He yearned to be close to her. "Yen, I'm here-"

The Man of Glass chuckled hideously. "Did you hear that, my poor Yennefer?" he whispered loudly into the Sorceress' ear. "They're here to watch you perform. We promised them a good show, remember?" He looked up at the audience gathering silently around the tree. "Tell me, how are you finding the first act?"

Geralt saw O'Dimm's hands begin to move. Dread constricted his veins. When he looked at Yennefer, he held her gaze and tried to think happy thoughts. He wished that she could still hear them.

Clap.

The nail, chains and shackles glowed like a hot poker. Geralt smelt burnt flesh. He could barely hear the sounds of Triss and Ciri choking on tears beside him, or Istredd's whimpering, or the sound of several bodies hitting the ground. All that he registered were her screams. They had become, perhaps, even more familiar to him now than the sound of her voice, or of his own pain.

"Admit it, Witcher, you like watching her, your Yen, suffer. That is what you've condemned her to, after all," said the merchant. He started edging closer until Geralt could feel the monster's hot breath on his neck.

Geralt's hands balled into fists. He fought the urge to act on his consuming anger. He didn't want to give O'Dimm the satisfaction. For Yennefer, he would be strong. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ciri's body convulsing with suppressed rage. There were tears hanging like stalactites from her chin. Geralt reached out for her hand and took it in his.

Master Mirror snorted. "Do you really think you can rescue her? Truly?" he jeered, stretching out his arm towards the figure still screaming under her burning tree. "You've presented her with the hope of rescue, yet, in truth, it is only another way that you torment her."

He stepped back towards the tree slowly, still facing out towards the crowd. "I have been unfairly painted as the villain of this fairy-tale. I have been judged before I could plead my defence. You call me a villain, but even if that be so, I am a simple one," he called out upon the stage, spreading his arms out wide and sweeping his wicked eyes over the audience. He clapped his hands, the metal cooled, but Geralt could breathe no sigh of relief. "I tell no lies, I make no false claims about the future, I do not delude my souls with promises of love. Not like Geralt of Rivia."

The Witcher began to squirm in his own skin. He grew increasingly uncomfortable as he felt the condemnatory and uncertain eyes fall upon him. Ciri squeezed his hand.

"You claim to love this woman, Master Witcher, do you not?" he asked, forcing Yennefer's head up again. A mixture of pain and anger swirled in her eyes. O'Dimm continued without an answer. "Yet the only outcome of your ineffably pointless attempt to save her..." He dug his fingers into a barely healed wound on her shoulder. She let out a muffled cry. "Is…Making…Her…Suffer…Even…More..." His hand dropped. Yennefer gasped for air. "But, do you know what the worst part it, Geralt of Rivia?" The merchant locked his hands together and held them at chest height. "The fact that, despite everything…She still loves you, unconditionally. Don't you, Yennefer?"

Guilt. The ball and chain Geralt had knowingly and purposefully shackled himself to after she died. It was something that sat, ever-present, in the back of his mind, influencing everything he did whether he was conscious about its control or not. And it was worse than the grief. Grief was a wound that healed over time, months, years, centuries, perhaps, but one day, all traces of it vanished. But guilt, that was like a scar. The pain it had inflicted upon Geralt had lessened with time, but the memory of what he had done had never left his side. Geralt knew it would always be a life-long companion, a hand guiding his life until his last breath.

Geralt felt it now. The scar throbbed as painfully as it had done the day she had died. He felt as though the stitching were about to burst open.

"Yes, yes, I will. Geralt…Ciri…" Yennefer mumbled. She raised up her chin and bit back her pain. Her violet eyes radiated warmth as she gazed at their faces. She had always been unnervingly stubborn, and Geralt loved that about her. G felt his heart skip a beat. "I will always love them, love them for eternity, Master Mirror."

"Foolish soul," he interrupted with feigned sadness. He shook his head from side to side as he stood over her, partly blocking Geralt's view. "I take pity on you, poor Yennefer, I do, and I wish to help you. To help you learn, as you should, to hate him. I think the time has come for me to remind you of what Geralt has done to you…Permanently."

He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She snarled. The next few minutes were agonizingly slow. Geralt felt it would have been possible to count every last grain falling from a sand timer. As it was, he tallied each of Yennefer's melodic, weak, echoing heartbeats. It helped remind him of what was important: she was still alive. Even after what he was about to witness, that would not change.

With a click of his fingers, the shackles around Yennefer's wrists fell away revealing her burnt flesh. Geralt looked on with horror as O'Dimm seized Yennefer's right wrist and pulled it free of the nail. It sliced right through her hand. The screaming was unbearable.

Holding her freed arm against the tree with one hand, he twisted it until it was palm down. The Sorceress tried to struggle, but it was in vain. He ripped off her sleeve and rummaged around in one of his bags. He drew out a poker and it began to glow, emanating fierce heat.

He held it aloft in front of Yennefer's face. She recoiled; he laughed. "After this, you won't ever forget what Geralt of Rivia did to you, and it will serve as a reminder of why you hate him."

He smiled at her and lowered the burning metal from her face. Instead, he hovered it over her right arm. The smell of burnt flesh intensified. As did the screaming.

Geralt held Ciri in his arms, stroking her hair tenderly, cocooning her. But he himself did not look away. He saw every letter being burnt into her flesh.

"Beg, Yennefer," coaxed the monster, chuckling as he continued with his craft, "beg me to stop. Tell Geralt how much you hate him, tell him how much you regret taking his place…And this will end. Hate him, Yennefer, hate him."

For a brief moment, the Witcher felt hopeful. But it soon passed.

Yennefer tossed her head back and screwed up her eyes tears running down her face. "Fuck you! Fuck you, you son of a whore!"

* * *

After what felt like a lifetime, a lifetime of taunting, screaming and cursing, it stopped.

"There, now you shan't ever forget, dear Yennefer, what the mutant did to you. Never," said Gaunter O'Dimm pompously, admiring his handiwork. When he let go of her wrist, Yennefer's arm fell limply to her side.

He discarded the used and when it hit the ground, the nail flew out of Yennefer's palm and the chains around her legs and ankles snaked away. Yennefer collapsed to the floor and instantly curled up. Geralt could hear her moaning in pain. Her bottom lip was bleeding because she was biting it. Beads of sweat coated her body and she was shaking violently. She lay there in the dirt and ash.

Master Mirror loomed over her, wiping his hands. Then, he grabbed Yennefer's hair and practically held her off the ground. She didn't even make a sound. "See here. This is what befalls those who cross me." He released her and walked over to the edge of the circle, stepping over her body. "Tell me, Geralt the cheat," he said, standing in front of the Witcher, "do you regret it? Do you regret crossing me?"

Their noses practically touched as they stood toe to toe. Two sets of yellow, narrowed eyes, locked in combat. "Tell me, Geralt," he repeated through gritted teeth. The Witcher said nothing. "Do you regret making her suffer?" The corner of O'Dimm's mouth twisted into a smile. "Do you regret losing her love?" Geralt looked away.

"Listen here, Master Mirror and remember what I have to say this time, because I am not fond of repeating myself." Her voice seemed faded, strained. It was no longer smooth and melodic; it lacked its usual clarity and strength. But, Yennefer's tone was still biting and scathing, and would have made shivers run up the spine of any man wise enough to fear it.

She had propped herself up on one arm, her other cradled in her lap. She held her head up, and her violet eyes were narrowed. "Not a second goes by in this hell when I do not miss home and the people I left behind. I long to see my family again, to hold them, to hear their voices, to see their smiles." She looked away from him, and her eyes found Geralt's. She smiled; he'd never seen anything so beautiful. "But I will never regret my sacrifice, and I will never stop loving them. My beloved, Geralt, and our child, Ciri, that…I can promise."

She looked at them for a while, and the world around them seemed to vanish. In that moment, there was only the three of them, him, Ciri…And Yennefer. The three pieces of his life back together. Geralt felt whole again and for a while, everything was as it should have been. Then, the moment ended.

Yennefer looked over at the Man of Glass. Her smile transformed into something vicious. "You can do whatever the hell you want with me, Master Mirror. I don't care because that fact will never change. It won't change no matter what the fuck you do to me. Because I, Master Mirror, never break my promises. Even when I have long forgotten their faces, forgotten their touch, their names, I will still love them." Geralt saw O'Dimm's hands, which were clutching his bag straps, tighten. A muscle in his calm face twitched. Yennefer's smile widened. "And I'll take pleasure knowing that you will forever despise that."

"My pity for you grows by the second, dear Yennefer," he said patronizingly, tilting his head to one side and bending down to face her. "You truly seem to believe that you're unbreakable, but you're not. You will learn to break your prom-"

He let out an inhuman scream, pulling away from Yennefer, a hand clasping his neck. When he pulled it away, Geralt saw blood trickling down his skin from the nail Yennefer had sunk into his flesh. O'Dimm pulled the implement free, and it disintegrated. His eyes narrowed, and he bared his teeth. The Witcher felt sick with fear.

The last thing he saw was O'Dimm stretching out a hand, and Yennefer's scream.

The swirling clouds dispersed like smoulder, but the tree was still burning. Nobody was in the right frame of mind to put it out. All Geralt could think about, was her brand. The words he might as well have carved with his own hand, for he was the one who caused them to be so.

 _'He condemned my soul.'_

* * *

Elizabeth Gilbert – The Realm of Glass: **Chapter 14, Leap of Faith**

"Faith is walking face-first and full-speed into the dark. If we truly knew all the answers in advance as to the meaning of life and the nature of God and the destiny of our souls, our belief would not be a leap of faith and it would not be a courageous act of humanity; it would just be... a prudent insurance policy."

* * *

Hi guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter…? I know it's a pretty nasty read but I hope that is has some redeeming features. I think that, as far as the violence and in particular torture goes, this is as bad as it will get. This isn't a _SAW_ fanfiction. A lot of things that the proxies will face in the Realm aren't physical, it's more mental trauma. I will always try and put warnings for things that could be upsetting or offensive but if I miss out something you think I need to mention then let me know. Don't want to upset anyone…Honest.

Two more weeks (chapter 15) until our proxies finally make the crossing. We're finally getting to the good stuff. I've been working really hard this weekend to come up with some amazing ideas to use and I'm super hyped!

Thank you for reading, liking, sharing and commenting, it really makes a difference to my day. Shout out to my betas DaisyofGalaxy11 and Dabbles in Crayon for being super, awesome, amazing!

Until next week Xx


	14. Leap of Faith

Elizabeth Gilbert – **The Realm of Glass: Chapter 14, Leap of Faith**

* * *

"Faith is walking face-first and full-speed into the dark. If we truly knew all the answers in advance as to the meaning of life and the nature of God and the destiny of our souls, our belief would not be a leap of faith and it would not be a courageous act of humanity; it would just be... a prudent insurance policy."

Ciri could barely see through her tears, she could barely breathe through them. She was a mess, streaks running down her face and her eyes red and puffy. But she didn't care, it was a trivial thing.

She was still pressed against Geralt's chest, even after she knew that her mother was gone. It didn't feel safe to back away. Neither of them said anything for a long while. Whispers whirled around her but she paid them no heed. She didn't want to think about what had just happened, she wanted it to be nothing but a bad memory or even a dream. She didn't want it to be… _Real._

She had been haunted by thoughts and nightmares about how her Mother fared in the 'afterlife', but her imagination could never have conjured up an image so vile. She'd witnessed it, and yet it was still somehow beyond her comprehension. Ciri remembered the last time she and Geralt had been together on this hill.

She sobbed. "Geralt…I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said, before. I'm sorry I-"

"It's okay Ciri."

* * *

She felt her skin begin to tingle as a wave of magic brushed past her. Ciri carefully moved her head to take a peek at the outside world. Philippa had moved closer to the tree and was putting out the fire, her face completely deadpan, and Iskierka was using his wings to blow away the ash, twigs and dead flowers. When the flames had finally been quelled, Ciri felt a pang of sorrow.

The tree was completely ruined. It was barren; nothing graced its branches and the bark was scorched and blackened. Withered and burnt violet blossoms and leaves, twigs and ash littered the ground. Her mother's resting place reeked of death. Tears welled in her eyes again.

Ciri pulled away from Geralt and went over to the solitary gravestone. She knelt beside it and wiped away the dirt and cinders with her hands, tears splashing onto it. She didn't register the hand on her shoulder but caught a glimpse of auburn hair out of the corner of her eye. Wiping tears from her cheeks, Triss held out her hands and muttered a spell. Beads of sweat rolled down her brow as the air thickened. When she'd finished, the Sorceress placed the conjured violet beside the gravestone. Then, she pulled Ciri into her arms and they sobbed some more – together.

They weren't the only ones. On top of that hill around the shrine was a mass of grim faces. Several people were being carried back to the house after they'd fainted or wretched up everything in their stomachs. Geralt was standing by the grave, his eyes closed; Lambert and Dandelion were unusually silent; Eskel was looking at the ground; the Duchess was as white as a sheet, clutching Syanna tightly; Zoltan and Hjalmar had their hands over their mouths; Istredd was shaking, hands clenched into fists and Regis looked… angry.

When Ciri looked up, Philippa was still by the tree, expressionless. She saw her hands trace the pattern of blood now staining the bark, then it came to rest on the small hole where the nail had been. When she withdrew it, the gap had vanished. Philippa seemed to hesitate.

She took a small step back and held her arms out to her sides. She spoke an incantation. Green mist started to flow from her hands and rose up into the air, moving in swirls around the dead tree. The withered branches shed their blackened bark like a snake, a new layer taking their place. Buds appeared over its limbs, opening up into splendid leaves and blossoms.

The overpowering scent of lilac and gooseberries settled in the air around them. Yennefer's tree was reborn.

Philippa placed a hand against the trunk. Sweat glistened over her bare arms and face; she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Ciri saw blood trickling down her nose and Philippa turned her back. Stiffly, Ciri got up from her knees and walked over. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Philippa, who accepted it.

"Thank you," said Ciri. The Enchantress inclined her head, holding the cloth to her nose. She wasn't looking at Ciri but at the patch of blood on the ground where Yennefer had collapsed. Her hands were shaking.

Ciri felt a gentle prod in the small of her back and turned around. The dragon pressed its head against her stomach and Ciri took it in her arms, running her hands over his smooth scales. Iskierka seemed to be whimpering slightly. "Such pain…" he murmured in her head.

"It will be okay. Mother's strong, she shan't be broken." _Because she never has been before_ , she thought. No matter how many times Yennefer's blood had been spilled and her fingers broken for the sake of another - Yennefer never gave in. Even if Ciri had at times wished she would.

* * *

He could see it all in his mind's eye; he'd captured it like a picture book. Geralt kept watching it over and over. He could still hear her cries ringing in his ears. He could still smell her fresh blood. He could still see her burnt flesh…He could still read his crime on her skin. Geralt couldn't bring himself to turn away from her. All he wanted to do was think about her strength, to see her as the others did. But he couldn't, his eyes were too well trained and his mind knew better…For the first time in his life, he hated how he saw through her…

"Geralt, come back to us friend."

He felt a pair of sharp, bony hands holding his shoulders in a vice-like grip. The slight pain niggling at him was distracting and intensifying in severity. The images in his mind were becoming disjointed and blurred as Regis talked to him without pause. Gradually, the terrifying reality manifested into a memory. He opened his eyes.

His pupils adjusted to the midday light. Regis was looking at him, closely. "You need to concentrate, Geralt," he said sternly. The vampire's eyes were cold and there was no hint of joviality or optimism in his voice. Geralt had never seen this side of him before. "This is only the beginning. Don't let O'Dimm win, Yennefer didn't and she's counting on you - remember that."

The Witcher titled his head back and took a deep breath. His life had fallen apart without Yennefer and yet, he was the one still here. His soul and body one, and his friends and family beside him. So what excuse did he have? He'd fallen apart and in doing so, O'Dimm had won.

* * *

Witchers were solitary creatures. They weren't made to lead armies or to inspire the masses. Witchers were professionals bred for one thing – killing monsters. That was what Geralt believed until he'd met Yennefer, until he transformed into something so much more than just that. She'd helped make a man out of the monster destiny had told him to be.

Amidst everything that had happened, he'd forgotten about that person. At first, he didn't care; he had watched as it slipped away and he became a shell of what he used to be. But now, that wasn't good enough for him… Because it wasn't good enough for Yennefer. That man she helped him realise he could be – that was who she needed.

"Thank you," he said, looking back at his friend. Regis didn't say anything - another peculiarity - but nodded.

When his shoulders had been released, Geralt stepped away from the multitude. He gazed at the newly blossomed tree. He wanted to take it as a sign; that whenever the tree was in blossom, Yennefer's soul was within his reach. That the woman he knew was still there, that she was not yet completely lost. He wasn't religious and didn't believe in such things, but for once – he wanted to.

He pulled out a chain from beneath his shirt and armour. His fingers brushed the soft wedding band, feeling its inscription. "Yen did not yield to O'Dimm, so neither will we." His voice echoed, compelling the crowd to silence. People stopped at once; mages, monarchs, warriors and friends listened attentively. Slowly, he turned around, the warm silver ring still in his fingers. "For two years she has suffered unimaginable pain and torment without the mercy of death, and yet, she still fights. She fights for us, for our sanity. O'Dimm might have her soul but he cannot control her spirit. Yen did not beg for it to stop, she did not grovel and submit. She fought back, she was strong – _for us_."

The way she'd smiled at him, moments like those were treasures beyond quantification. Sincerity; that was the beauty of each and every smile that Yennefer gifted him and somehow, just then, he'd seen it again. The way she'd looked at him, the smile filling her eyes with unspoken words and promises...Geralt feared he would never see it again. He had condemned her soul, but her love had never wavered as he thought it would, as part of him had hoped it would. His undeserving soul had been lucky - his Yen was still in there.

"Yen fought when she had nothing to gain and everything to lose. She tormented the man who causes her suffering because she wanted to prove that he won't win. She won't let fear control her, and neither will we." Several heads in the crowd were nodding as he spoke. People were rolling their shoulders and Geralt was having to raise his volume as armour and weapons clanked together. He tried not to pay them too much attention - he just focused on the ring. "I know I'm asking a lot of you - to risk your life for one person when we can't even tell you what is coming. But this is about more than just Yen; this is about good and evil. We've been given a chance to take down the closest thing I've seen to a god. O'Dimm is all powerful and we are his puppets. I don't know how many lives he has ruined, but it ends now."

He paused as there was a roar of the crowd. Gauntlets and chest plates, weapons and shields smashed together. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ciri smiling. He didn't know why, but she looked happier than she had in two years. "We're not just fighting for Yen, but because of her. She proves that Master Mirror is not perfect and all seeing; he brought her to this tree to break her and to break us but she didn't yield. He was wrong and because of that, he bled like no immortal can. It won't be easy, but this is a chance we need to take. So, anyone willing, get to your positions."

"To arms!"

The crowd scattered, dispersing across the estate and shouting as they went. Even though the Mages were walking calmly towards their stations, Geralt heard his medallion hum. Eskel and Lambert held back and said goodbye to Ciri and Geralt and promising that Corvo Bianco was in good hands. When Lambert chased after Keira, Eskel didn't follow. He approached Triss and they embraced, sharing a few hushed words.

The Witcher felt something tugging at his shirt. He looked around as Ciri's arms wrapped around his neck. "I've missed you, Geralt; it's good to have you back."

* * *

Geralt waited with Ciri atop the hill for a while. From there, they could see their plan being set in motion. Archers climbed to the top of their rickety towers, shielding their eyes from the sun. The Magicians activated their wards and prepared their spells, Dorregaray, Keira, Rita and Fringilla joining the soldiers in their towers. Hjalmar and his warriors were fanned out around the estate with a Troll making up their ranks. Mercenaries guarded the gate and Toussaint's knights stood by the house. Lambert and Eskel kept their eyes on the horizon, honing their senses and leading their men. Regis and Shani ensured that their tables and tools were clean and their medical supplies on hand. The dragon perched on top of the house, ready to lay down its life. Nenneke, Anna and Syanna watched over Yennefer's body closely.

When all was in place, Ciri and Geralt joined the other proxies - Dandelion, Istredd, Philippa and Triss - as they descended towards the house. The two other Mirrors were still there. Mistress Mirror was eating a chunk of cheese and bread, one arm folded under the other as she leant against the wall while her brother watched the men and women fall into place.

"Why didn't you stop him?" Istredd demanded, getting right up in Master Mirror's face.

The merchant gave him a sympathetic, patronizing smile. "Because we couldn't, and that's all you need to know. I doubt your small human mind would be able to comprehend even the simplest of our laws, poor thing."

"Now that our brother and your mage have finished making fools of themselves," said Un Wake, brushing her hands together, "are you ready, Geralt of Rivia, for this once-in-a-lifetime chance?"

These past four weeks had felt like a dream, one he didn't want to end even while he longed to see how it finished. What happened if he woke up screaming? He wasn't sure he'd have the strength to get up if she was not there beside him. He sighed. There would be no going back now; what was done, was done.

Fate had given him this chance. All that remained was for him to make the most of it.

Geralt took another look at the estate, and he nodded. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Four weeks and two years had passed since the death of Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, the Mistress of Corvo Bianco, the legendary raven-haired Sorceress from the North, the Mother of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon and the lover of Geralt of Rivia. She died at the hands of a mysterious entity known as Gaunter O'Dimm, the Man of Glass or Master Mirror. Little was known about this figure, who he was, what he was and where he had come from, save only his demonic nature and his craft; harvesting the souls of all the unfortunate mortals with whom he had struck a binding deal. It was such a deal that brought about the demise of Lady Yennefer when the devil incarnate came for the Witcher's soul and left with hers willingly offered in her beloved's place. Where her soul was residing, no one knew; all that was certain was the eternity of suffering that awaited her. Then, even that truth was cast under the spotlight.

1279 Velen, in Corvo Bianco, the estate owned by Master Geralt and his late fiancé Lady Yennefer, a force gathered from all corners of the world. Their purpose, to rescue a kidnapped and tormented soul from the clutches of hell itself and to oppose Gaunter O'Dimm, the embodiment of evil.

Fortifications had been built around the estate and a wooden barricade enclosed it. The wine cellars were transformed into an infirmary for the victims of the battle and quarters for the weary. The new houses were cleared of their owners who left wishes of good luck and fortune in their stead. Mages, archers, swordsmen, cut-throats, knights, Witchers, royalty, and Priestesses stood united against the upcoming battle. Their purpose – to protect the travellers at all cost. Wards were erected around the master bedroom, guarding the sleeping Princess within as her rescuers embarked on a journey to rescue her. Six people laid down their mortal vessels and held out their souls.

With a final kiss of farewell, Sir Geralt of Rivia lied down on the floor beside his beloved. He closed his eyes. He did not know how far his soul would travel to save her.

* * *

Lao Tzu: **Chapter 15, Crossing the Void**

"The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

* * *

Hello, thank you for reading the chapter, hope you enjoyed it. At last, the time has come… Next chapter we will have our first glance at the Realm of Glass, O'Dimm's home. Better be ready because next week is when things start to get serious. Finally, the good part everyone was waiting for! xD

Just a warning about my schedule. I can't 100% guarantee that over Easter I'll be able to post every week because I have a lot of coursework I need to do and which I can't start until the break because we haven't covered the relevant content. I will try, but the problem with coursework is that it completely destroys your will to write anything…

Thank you to my two amazing betas DaisyofGalaxy and DabblesinCrayon. Thank you for reading my fic, and if you would be kind enough to like, share, and/or comment that would be greatly appreciated.


	15. Crossing the Void

Lao Tzu: **Chapter 15, Crossing the Void**

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

* * *

Geralt hated portals. Boat, horse, cart, foot, dragon; he would have chosen all those over a portal - no matter the distance. But, after what he'd just experienced, Geralt vowed to never complain about them again.

Having his soul ripped from his body didn't sound like a pleasant experience, no matter how one phrased it. There were certainly going to be some unwelcome consequences, death being one of them. It was no surprise that O'Dimm didn't get many visitors.

Geralt closed his eyes without knowing what to expect. For a split second, there was only darkness. Then, he felt his body rise slowly as something gently touched his back. It felt like he was floating in water, but opening his eyes he saw only the bedroom. Geralt's heart dropped – they'd failed at the first hurdle. But he barely had a chance to register this when something caught his eye.

There was a white light glowing beside him and he looked around. A translucent Ciri was hovering above her body with wide eyes and she was staring at him. Geralt spun around and looked down at his lifeless body. The colour was draining from his skin as though his body were being sucked dry. His heart was still. Geralt felt hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He expelled all the air from his lungs and his body was thrown into the air. Geralt flapped his arms and flailed around as he passed through the ceiling. He barely had a chance to look at the estate before clouds obscured his vision. And he kept going.

White, green, blue; Toussaint became smaller and smaller. Now, he could see the north as well, like he was looking at a map. His sight began to curve as edges of the world and continents he never knew existed fell from view, disappearing around the side of a sphere before that too flew into the distance. There was encompassing darkness. By now he was sure he'd reached into the night sky yet there were no stars here lighting the way. Then, he stopped.

Geralt could feel his body but couldn't see it; he couldn't see anything. He was floating in the air rolling around. There was complete silence, he couldn't even hear himself breathing and he suddenly realised he wasn't. His heart had stopped beating. Was this…death? The Witcher could only remember one other time he had felt this afraid. When he'd heard Yennefer's heart stop beating.

Seconds, minutes, weeks; Geralt had no way of knowing how long he'd been floating there with nothing but his misery keeping him company. The darkness drained him of everything else. Then, in the distance...a light. A tiny firefly as white as snow buzzed soundlessly towards him. It drifted above his head and he reached for it, swiping at it. One of his fingers brushed its side. He fell.

The terrible sensation of leaving half his body behind gripped Geralt's stomach as he plummeted through the darkness. He felt as though his skin was being stretched like dough and his body wrung like a wet towel. His lungs and veins burned but he could not scream. He didn't remember anything after that.

* * *

His eyes flew open. He gasped.

Geralt was lying flat on his back, gulping in air like he'd forgotten how to breathe. He had one hand on this throat and another clawed at the ground. He looked down and saw that they were unusually pale. His heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest as it pumped blood around his cold body at an impossible speed. Slowly, sensation started to return to his limbs and they felt less like dead weight.

He couldn't make out what he was seeing; everything was a blurred mush of colours which were spinning and swirling around like enchanted smoke. It was making him feel sick and he closed his eyes. Geralt couldn't hear anything because of a painfully loud ringing in his ears.

Throwing an arm over his face, he concentrated on controlling his breathing. The air

was thick and left a disagreeable aftertaste in his mouth, one he couldn't put his finger on. It smelt earthy, the same sort of aroma that lingers over burial grounds. There was also blood. Geralt felt disgusted. His chest tightened. It was Yennefer's.

With his eyes still shut, he carefully moved into a sitting position, supporting himself with his arms. He took a deep breath and forced himself to open his eyes. He winced as his head throbbed more painfully, but managed to stop his eyelids from falling shut. The mud beneath him was dry, a thin layer on its surface that moved like dust when he ran his fingers through. There were dead weeds and blades of grass sprouting from between its cracks. But there was something else sprouting up from the earth. He followed the wooden stake jutting from the ground and saw other pieces of wood with pointed edges attached to their tops; they were facing in several directions. It was a signpost - he was at a crossroads.

The sign at the bottom of his feet stood in the middle of the clearing, nine muddy paths diverging from its centre. Withered grass, leafless trees and jagged rocks littered the landscape, the only distinguishable features he could see. The paths seemed to stretch on endlessly, lit by the blood red moon suspended in a midnight sky of swirling indigo.

Geralt saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Ciri, who was lying on her stomach, was moving into a kneeling position. Her chest was heaving with unsteady breaths. The others were stirring as well; Dandelion, Philippa, Triss and Istredd were all in the same clearing as he, lying on the dirt.

A gigantic tree loomed behind the Bard, its gnarled bark flaking like old skin. There were blood stains on the twisted trunk. Geralt got to his feet and shook his head trying to clear it. He walked around the signpost and stepped over knotted roots. His fingers trailed the blood stain – Yennefer's. There was a pair of shackles and two heavy chains resting in the grass nearby. There was a hole in the tree. Geralt closed his eyes and rested his head against it. Somebody came up behind him and hugged his middle.

"We'll make him pay for this, Ciri," said Geralt.

He moved her arms away and turned around. He wiped a tear from her cheek. Ciri didn't reply but nodded and moved away to help Triss to her feet. Geralt watched the others as they looked around the surreal landscape, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. Dandelion pulled out a scroll and a charcoal stick and began scribbling something down furiously.

Geralt rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Dandelion, this is not the time for notetaking." The Bard ignored him and continued writing. Every so often, his eyes would flicker up to the sign and he would walk around it. Geralt looked at Ciri; she shrugged in reply. "Dandelion, what-"

"It's a message," he replied, cutting him off. "Look at the writing." He tapped a piece of wood which his charcoal.

Geralt stepped closer, as did the others. 'The', 'leads', 'where', 'path', 'go', 'to', 'ahead', 'you' and 'fear' were scratched into separate pieces of wood, each of which was pointing in a different direction and down a different path.

Dandelion was tapping the pencil against his lips and pacing up and down, sending a small cloud of dirt in the air. Geralt could hear him muttering under his breath. "The path ahead leads where you fear to go. Yes!" Dandelion thrust the piece of paper at Geralt. "The path ahead leads where you fear to go. They're directions, Geralt." He gestured with wide arms to the paths around him, shoulders arched back.

"Brilliant, how helpful," snapped Philippa. "These paths all look equally miserable and unappealing." As much as he didn't want to, Geralt had to admit that she had a point.

Dandelion's smile, however, didn't falter. "Don't give in so easily, Philippa. I'm positive that this riddle is the key to moving deeper into O'Dimm's Realm. There must be other clues around here."

Geralt turned his back on the sign and started to focus his senses. "What's the point? We're only wasting time. Let's just pick a path and get moving." Geralt ground his teeth.

"Istredd, be reasonable and think for a second. If we head down the wrong path then who knows how long we'd be lost for. We might not be able to get on track again and then what?" said Triss somewhere behind him. There was an unusual bitterness in her voice which pleased him. Istredd didn't reply and Geralt's desire for hot blood coating his bare hands started to fade, but only a little. "Yes, we need to be quick, but we also need to be cautious. This is our one and only shot to help Yenna – we can't afford any mistakes."

Geralt was surprised when Istredd didn't respond but he welcomed it. He began walking around the circle in silence, applying his Witcher trade. When Geralt inspected the fifth path he spotted something which was different to the rest. Drops of blood soaking the otherwise parched earth. He moved closer and inhaled. More of Yennefer's blood. Geralt could see it extending into the distance. He didn't know what to feel anymore.

* * *

"I think it's this way," he said after finishing his search. He jerked his head down the blood-stained path.

"What makes you so certain?" Istredd asked at once, scowling. Geralt fought the urge to clench his fist.

The Witcher turned his back on the mage and took several steps down the track. He pointed at the ground and looked over his shoulder. "That's more of Yen's blood, there are several drops leading in that direction." He kept his eyes focused on Istredd as the Mage wandered over, keeping several paces behind everyone else. "If what Dandelion says is right, I think this is our best bet. That path must lead to Yennefer and wherever she is, he'll be close by and along with him - whatever nightmares he has for us."

Dandelion and Triss paled as they stared blankly over Geralt's shoulder. He understood. Seeing this place, being here, it made everything that the Mirrors had told them a lot more… believable. Fiction had finally become solid, cold reality. Geralt felt like he was finally waking up to the realisation of what they might have to face.

"I'm not so sure. 'Forgive me', for not trusting your unnatural mutations." Geralt's hand twitched.

"Then what do you suggest, Istredd?" Philippa retorted. The band around her eyes glowed faintly as she sneered at him, a hand resting on her hip. Istredd's eyes narrowed but he kept quiet; a bead of sweat glistened on his cheek. The Sorceress smiled condescendingly. "Well, if there are no more pointless objections, let's go. The sooner we leave, the better; some of us have lives independent of Yennefer's which we'd like to get back to." She shouldered past Istredd who bit his lip.

Geralt turned around and walked beside Ciri as they led the group up the dreary path, the others trudging along behind them. The journey was underway, at long last.

* * *

The familiar sensation of pain – ineffable and inconceivable pain – was consuming every single part of her consciousness. The eternal companion she knew inside out and could always rely on. Pain came in many forms and could be administered with creativity, brutality and precision, yet one always knew what to expect from it somehow, after spending enough time with it.

Yennefer knew pain in a way she had thought was impossible, every second of her life was now filled with it. Though she could never be certain what hell she would face after her current torment ended, she knew that some form of pain would be there beside her. Pain was a certainty and Yennefer found comfort in that fact, because it meant that O'Dimm could never truly surprise her. He'd tried on countless occasions to intimidate and scare her with new propositions about how to torture her soul, but each time he tried she would simply raise an eyebrow and laugh. No matter what he did, pain was inevitably the outcome, Yennefer had come to accept this truth and she took pleasure in it. Watching Master Mirror's dismay as most of his attempts to reduce her to a whimpering soul were not as effective as he hoped. He lived and breathed suffering, it was his craft and his passion and yet – he was blind to its limitations. It was the only light she had, and Yennefer clung to it. She was willing to endure more pain than any being – living or dead – ever had if it meant she could watch this demon fail time and time again to get what he wanted from her. Submission. She would laugh and spit in his face as she drew strength from his ignorance; pain was inevitable, so why fear it? Why give into this monster when she still had people she needed to fight for? People who couldn't see her broken.

When Geralt and Ciri, their faces painted against the backdrop of the place she had once called home, faded from her sight, O'Dimm went wild. He abandoned the creativity of his trade and returned to its more fundamental principles. She'd clawed at his hand as he wrapped it around her throat, pinning her against the dirt. Punches and kicks bruised, broke and bloodied every inch of her body. It wasn't long before all her physical strength had left her and he let go, using both hands to release his anger. Yennefer had closed her eyes and pictured their faces in her mind's eye trying to remember and carve every detail. Seeing them again was worth anything - if only to help her remember their faces. Pain had a way of making the mind forget.

If she'd been mortal, Yennefer would have suffocated on her screams; she wished she had. She neither knew nor cared how long it took for O'Dimm to regain self-control, the pain had paralyzed her body and mind. It had frozen her in a loop where even after the torment had ended, the pain was still there and it never relinquished its hold on her. Yennefer and pain, two components of the same immortal vessel, neither one distinguishable from the other.

She stayed where he'd left her mangled body, face up and lying in the dirt like a discarded doll, her blood pooling around her. She could feel it running down her torn clothes and mutilated skin like warm drops of rain trickling down a window pane. Yennefer wondered how much blood she'd lost since she'd become a prisoner in this place. How many times she should have died.

Something cold scraped against her cheek and she tried to open her eyes but couldn't. "Why couldn't you have played along, Yennefer? You were doing so well until they showed up, then you went and ruined everything. Now I think I understand why. But don't worry, poor Yennefer, they will see you as broken as I have. Even you cannot keep up this act forever; you put up a brave show but eventually your mask will slip and they'll see what you're trying to hide." O'Dimm's breath was touching her neck and making her skin crawl. A finger traced the fresh brand on her arm. Yennefer tried to move but her muscles didn't so much as twitch - she cried out faintly. Master Mirror chuckled. "They're almost here, my dear soul. Soon, very soon, you'll realise that you gave your love and trust to the wrong people. Soon, very soon, the cracks will show and they shall no longer be able to draw strength from you." Something dug into her flesh pressing against her back. Slowly, Yennefer felt herself being lifted off the ground and her head lolled backwards like a newborn's. "Come, you must be ready to see their most imminent failure, now that they've arrived."

Her heart seemed to jump into her throat and she choked. She tried to open her eyes again but saw only a small slither of light before the world was shut off to her. Her hair began to sway and her body was jolted with tiny movements, each one sending another spasm of pain across her body. Their faces were becoming blurred again, the memory already slipping from her mind. She could not lose it again. Yennefer bit her lip and held her breath.

Gradually, light – as dim as it was – started to fill her vision. The hazy shape of O'Dimm loomed before her and she blinked; everything went black. Her heart constricted. She sighed as her eyes opened again. Yennefer focused on her breathing and tried to pull together all the strength she had. With it, she turned her head to the side, straining her neck. She gasped.

Geralt. Ciri. Two solid bodies were lying on the ground just behind them, eyes closed. Yennefer could see his chest rising and falling steadily. _They really were here…So close…_ Master Mirror chuckled, and a shroud of fog fell around them. She lost sight of their faces.

* * *

Harper Lee - _To Kill a Mockingbird_ : **Chapter 16, Going Nowhere**

Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what."

* * *

Hello, hope you enjoyed this chapter. A first glance at O'Dimm's world, a small portion of his extensive realm. And, a little bit of Yennefer, at long last. There will be more of her now we are finally at the good part of the story!

I'm sorry to say that I don't think there will be a chapter next week. I need to prioritise my coursework right now, but there will still be fortnightly updates. Hopefully this will only be for a month and then it will be back to weekly updates at least till exams.

So, see you in two weeks!


	16. Going Nowhere

**Harper Lee - To Kill a Mockingbird: Chapter 16, Going Nowhere**

"Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what."

* * *

Having spent so much time on the path and hunting monsters underground, Geralt had developed an excellent sense of time. Even though the blood-coloured moon did not move from its perch in the sky - a gem forever sending its dim rays down on the wandering souls and soaking the land in red - he was able to estimate how long they'd been traveling.

They spent almost an entire day walking, stopping only occasionally to rest on fallen logs and monstrous boulders. The two hunters searched for any signs of water or edible life, keeping their eyes alert and their mind distracted. But there was nothing. Geralt pretended not to see the tears running down Ciri's face as she cried about a desert under her breathe. Desperate, Triss and Philippa tried to conjure up some sustenance, the desire to behold life overcoming them. It dissolved into ash before they had a chance to gouge their eyes on the sight. Without a word they moved on, tears running silently down their faces, even Geralt's. Eventually, with empty stomachs and dry throats, they called an end to what they guessed was their first day and settled in for the night and the fears that haunted it. They took turns taking watch, but nothing stirred during their slumber. They never knew when morning came; the Realm remained like a picture.

The next day, progress was slower. It seemed as though the travelers were cursed, doomed to befall the same fate as the land around them. Talking was almost unbearable, sandpaper rubbing their throat and mouth. They were painfully aware of each breath they took and religiously tried to reserve the air in their lungs. Only the nightmares in their heads ever broke the monotony of their travel as they wandered back and forth across the canvas. Geralt began to count how many times they passed the same old rotten tree or stack of rocks, but it became too miserable to bear.

Existence in the Realm of Glass was a half-life, one deprived of life's embrace and death's finality, where souls were burden with false mortality. Pain without an end. Geralt lost track of time after a week on the same road…

* * *

She felt dizzy and it was beginning to make her sick. Triss closed her eyes and ran her tongue over her cracked lips, cutting her dry tongue. Her stomach growled and she bit her lip; it started to bleed. She licked up the small drops of liquid without hesitation, like a mutt lapping up piss in the street. The rough bark dug into the soft and unprotected flesh on her back as she sat against the tree. It was the only thing keeping her from falling asleep. She had never known discomfort like this before. She longed to curl up in a ball and hibernate peacefully. She wanted it to end.

Her sides ached with hunger. A beast clawed at her from the inside demanding that which she longed to give it but which she could not find nor conjure. Over time, she became increasingly aware of its presence within her and she could no longer ignore it. Every second she was awake Triss was aware of the pain eating away at her and with each breath, it growled. It was worse than the exhaustion and the aching of her muscles because it was unfamiliar to her. She would do anything to make it go away.

How had Yenna chosen this fate…she thought. Triss felt ashamed. She remembered how he – Geralt – had defended his love from slander one night amongst 'friends'. How he'd told them of Yennefer's time in Stygga Castle, a time when her captors had to force feed her or else lose her to starvation and forfeit their only potential source of information. Yennefer was willing to inflict a slow and painful death upon herself when she was at risk of putting those she loved in harm's way. And here Triss was, on the verge of letting the hunger consume her when her friend's very soul depended on her.

Triss opened her eyes and looked over at the others. Geralt was kneeling beside Dandelion, who had just collapsed in a heap on the floor. He was still unconscious. He wasn't the first to fall, however. Triss had been. She rubbed the small lump on the back of her head, which throbbed dully, but she didn't even flinch. Her vision went blurry and she sniffed. Philippa, who was resting her back against a tree stump, looked at her. Triss turned away and blinked, tilting her head back until the tears had gone. The other Sorceress said nothing, nobody did. Triss was beginning to forget the sound of her own voice. She was beginning to forget the sounds of life, of running water and rustling trees, of buzzing bees and singing birds. The longer she was here, the more she forgot about what life had been like before. She tried to remember her little study in Kovir with its soft armchairs and roaring fire, but the details were fuzzy, wisps of a long forgotten dream.

She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her stomach moaned and Triss trembled from more than just hunger. How was she so weak and pathetic? Barely into her journey and she was already becoming crippled by fear and losing her strength. She was failing at the first hurdle. It hadn't even been that long… Her heart started to race and she rested her head against her knees. She exhaled slowly.

Maybe this was all a big mistake…I'm nothing but a burden. I'm holding the others back and ruining Yennefer's only chance of freedom. Why am I here? I knew I should have stayed behind. I don't have the strength to do this. I'm too afraid… Eskel was wrong…

* * *

"Triss…"

Startled, she let out a small scream before covering her mouth with her hand. She gasped for air as her heart rate increased. Triss clutched the edges of the cloak tightly, drawing it closer as she looked into the darkness. One of the candles on the table suddenly lit.

"Eskel?" she whispered.

A tall, muscular silhouette moved into the light. Triss saw a flash of yellow. "Yes, it's me. Sorry, Triss."

"It's okay," she mumbled.

They looked at each other for a moment, neither one breaking the silence. Triss felt her cheeks getting warm and she looked away. She watched the dim light flicker against the stone walls of the laboratory…Yennefer's laboratory. Dusty bottles, books and strange, intricate pieces of apparatus lined the various shelves around the circular room. On one of the tables stood a vase of wilted flowers, dead petals lying crumbled at its base.

Triss wasn't entirely sure what Yennefer had been doing before she died, but she knew one thing. She looked down at the small bottle in her hand and rubbed her finger over the label. Yennefer had started making her cosmetics again; she was going to reopen her shop in Vengerberg and start one in Toussaint. The glass bottle she was holding contained a light green liquid which Triss had recognised at once. It was an oil that helped scars fade, one that contained no magic, unlike most of her products.

"What are you doing in here?"

Triss tapped her nail against the glass bottle. She'd hoped that he'd leave her be but that clearly wasn't going to happen now. "It's nothing, just had a nightmare. Needed to clear my head," she replied, as calmly as possible.

Triss looked at him and held her breath. Eskel didn't say anything at first, he was still standing in the shadows, but she could see his eyes upon her. Again, it was Triss who looked away.

"Triss, what's wrong?"

Triss choked. "Nothing…I…I just…" she blinked and felt tears roll down her cheeks.

A hand on her arm pulled her to the side. She rested her head against Eskel's shoulder and sobbed into it as his strong hands rubbed circles on her back. The small bottle shook in her hand, swirling the liquid.

Triss knew it was for her. Yennefer had spent months working on the recipe, not long after the battle of Sodden when she'd regained her sight. She'd seen the scars left behind that magic could not completely hide. Triss had lost hope that she'd ever find a remedy that she wasn't allergic to. She'd never asked her for help. How could she? The loss of her sight had left Yennefer scarred, but there was nothing anyone could do for her. A long time went by with no word exchanged between them, then, one day, Triss heard a rumour. Yennefer's sight had finally come back and then, she'd disappeared. Triss didn't know where she had gone; she thought that the Sorceress needed time. She hadn't been expecting to receive a message on her megascope inviting her to Vengerberg only two months later. She'd been so happy when Yennefer gave her a case of the stuff. She'd regained her sight only to lock herself away in the dark to work on it.

She closed her hands around the bottom of the bottle and drew it under the cloak which she closed around her. Since that day, a rift had grown between them. At times it felt so wide that she couldn't see the other side. After the Wild Hunt, Triss felt that it had begun to close bit by bit. But the rift had still been open when Yennefer died… There was nothing she regretted in this world more than that. She knew that things would never quite be the way they once were, and she had no one to blame but herself.

"I c-c-can't do it, Esk-e-el…I c-c-an't," she sobbed, struggling to breathe. "I've b-e-e-en trying to b-be brave, b-u-u-ut I j-just can't d-d-do it."

"What, Triss? What can't you do? Breathe, Triss," he whispered into her hair.

Her chest was rising and failing and was wet with tears. She tried to breathe normally but instantly lost control. "I can't g-go in. I can-n-n't do i-it."

Eskel shushed her and stroked her hair. His embrace was warm and safe. Triss didn't feel ashamed to shed her tears here. She cried at the memory of her nightmare, the way O'Dimm had laughed at her and the mix of pity and loathing she's seen in Yennefer's gaunt and bruised face. Master Mirror had given her a choice, an opportunity to take Yennefer's place and to let her rest. Triss had found herself unable to speak and he'd laughed in her face. Triss had been woken by Yennefer's screams - so real and close - and had made her way down into the now-unused laboratory. She wasn't sure why, perhaps because it reminded her of Yennefer…and of happier times.

Slowly, the single candle started to whittle down, wax pooling in the small silver dish holding it. Triss could barely see Eskel in this light, but his arms were still around her and she knew without looking that he was watching over her, waiting. He had been since Yennefer died.

Rummaging under the cloak, Triss pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her face. "We don't know what we will face there, Eskel. I'm afraid, not only of what we might find but that I might fail the others, hold them back…I know I will…"

"And I know you won't, Triss. Come on."

Eskel didn't wait for a reply as he gently pulled her to her feet and led her towards a chair in the corner of the room. He grabbed the candle as they moved past it and set it on a barrel nearby. The Sorceress could now clearly see his features as he pulled over a crate and sat upon it. He took her hands in his and she stared at them.

"You need to give yourself more credit, Triss. You need to believe in yourself as much as others do, as I do." Eskel squeezed her hand and hesitantly she looked up. All that she could think about was how much of a mess she must look like right now. "You might not have faced many hardships or had many chances to test yourself, but that doesn't mean you lack the strength to do what needs to be done when your time comes. I've seen it before, when you fought at Kaer Morhen and Thanedd, and I've heard about it as well. About your time in Novigrad and with the Witch Hunters."

Her fingers twitched involuntarily, and she looked down at the floor. "Thank you, Eskel, for your faith, but you're wrong about me. Yes, I might have done those things but in truth, I don't know how I did them because…because even then I was afraid."

"So, what?" She gasped quietly, taken aback by his slightly stern tone and raised voice. When she looked up he smiled kindly, but he was looking at her seriously. "There's nothing wrong with being afraid, Triss. It's what keeps us alive. It's what keeps us human and sane. And Triss, I'm also afraid."

She laughed softly and shook her head. "I don't believe you, Eskel," she said. The candlelight reflected off his bare and muscular arms. She swallowed.

"I'm a Witcher, we fight monsters that we've studied for years and know like the back of our hand. Now, I have no idea what's coming, about what I'm supposed to face and that makes me afraid. But so what? Fear itself isn't the problem, Triss. The problem is letting fear control you. In the past, you've proven that you have the strength to defy fear. I know that you can find that strength again."

She looked at him for a while. Triss wanted to say something but couldn't think of the right words to prove him wrong. They were still holding hands. His were rough, large and warm. Triss knew she would never forget their touch, their lines and bumps. He was still smiling at her, waiting with a patience she didn't deserve. Eventually, she smiled back.

"Thank you, Eskel…I believe you…."

* * *

 **L.M. Montgomery - Anne of Avonlea: Chapter 17, Echoes**

"I'm just tired of everything…even of the echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes…echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're beautiful and mocking."

* * *

I'M BACK DID YOU MISS ME GUYS! Finally, I can update Realms and should continue being able to do so for a long while to come. Why so long? I'll keep it short: Recently I've been having personal problems that have made writing a big challenge for me, that's the simplest way of putting it. I thank you all for being so patient.

Anyway, on another note…Triss x Eskel fluff sdjhfbsdjfsdhjfbsh. Love this little paring, so I'm showing them how much I appreciate them, send them hugs and kisses guys. How are you liking the Realm so far? What are you expecting to come? I'm interested to know… xD

Unlike before, I'm not going to stick to a schedule because right now I find it a lot easier to write when I don't have a deadline hanging over me :P See you guys soon though Xxx


	17. Echoes

**L.M. Montgomery -** _ **Anne of Avonlea:**_ **Chapter 17, Echoes**

"I'm just tired of everything…even of the echoes. There is nothing in my life but echoes…echoes of lost hopes and dreams and joys. They're beautiful and mocking."

* * *

She felt each bump and pothole they hit as the cart moved along the path, carrying her back. They were frequent and painful, shaking her fragile body and bringing tears to her eyes which she refused to shed. Master Mirror was now sitting in the driver's seat whistling a jaunty tune that grated her nerves. She kept her back to him. Yennefer was huddled in the corner resting against the black, jagged bars of the cage that occupied the entirety of the back of the cart. They cut and bruised her, but she did not care for such trivialities anymore. Besides, there was something much more painful going on inside her body and under her skin. O'Dimm had carried her to the cage and thrown her onto the splintered wood. He'd leant over her, smiling and stroking her hair as he drained her body of blood. She didn't even have the strength to scream. Hot needles had punctured her skin and pulled out crimson threads which the tailor collected in several clear jars. There had been so much of it, and when the shadow moved away from her withered body, Yennefer thought the worst was over. Until her body slowly began to fill up.

They hit a large bump. It jolted her broken leg and she bit her lip to stifle her cry. A small tear escaped her eyelids; she tried to brush it away, but her shackles were heavy. She was forced to let it slide down her face and onto her chin where it hung for a while. It dripped off and fell onto her hands and she watched it trace patterns on her dirty skin as she tilted her hand, rolling it around.

She looked up and stared out of the back of her cage. A thick blanket of fog was trailing them, covering the land and sky behind it and hiding the trail of blood - her blood - that the cart was leaving in its wake. Yennefer couldn't stop looking at it. She couldn't remember when she'd last slept now, when her last nightmare had been. She knew they were behind it…Geralt, Ciri. Occasionally, she would hear a voice echoing in the distance, but it was so far that she could not tell whom the voice belonged to. No matter how long she gazed at the path behind her, she could never penetrate the fog.

Yennefer let the tear roll off her hand. Here, there was no looking back, and no future to look to instead.

* * *

 _This is hopeless_ …

The blood on the trail seemed to glow under the strange light of the moon, droplets sparkling like bloodied diamonds. It was the only thing of real colour here. Even Dandelion's garish clothes seemed muted and dull, like a painting coated in layers of dust and time. They were following a trail of breadcrumbs in this twisted fairy-tale. It was all Philippa saw as they aimlessly wandered this hellish land. She couldn't bring herself to look away, the sight endlessly sickening her not because of what it was, but rather what it meant. _So much blood…_ The obsidian circle dug into her hands as she clutched it, leaving an impression on her palm. Sleep was calling her, but she could not return to it. When she raised a hand to redo her braid, she saw that it was still shaking.

Philippa got up and skulked around their small encampment. It was hard to tell whether or not the others were sleeping peacefully or if they were unconscious, or dead. She sat back down on a boulder and placed her hands on its cold, rough surface. Philippa's throat constricted, and she withdrew her hands at once. She felt a strange sensation as something bobbed around her in head moving too fast for her to process. She rubbed her clammy hands on her skirt and placed them uncertainly in her lap. Something flashed in front of her eyes… Philippa whimpered.

 _She was here…_ Flashes of fragmented memories echoed in her head and she stepped away. Philippa saw the blood stains on the side of the rock and the pieces of broken glass. _She was so close…_ When her back hit a tree trunk, she slid down it still looking blankly at the rock. She knew there was no mistake. Philippa held her head in her hands and ran her fingers over the surface of the small stone and felt the diamond at its centre. Someone screamed…

* * *

 _There she was…a black and white figure lying in the back of a cart surrounded by bars. The cart lurched forwards and she heard Yennefer whimper and curl up in a ball. Ciri got up and ran after her. She reached out a hand and jumped, clinging to the cage. Something wet hit her face, she saw a red drop drip onto her shoulder. She felt her heart constrict. Blood was leaking out of the wood and running down the metal. Like snakes, streams of blood slithered from the cuts riddling Yennefer's body. They disappeared into the wood, climbed up the sides and squeezed between the bars falling onto the road behind them._

 _Ciri closed her eyes and reached for the padlock securing the door. She tugged it with all her might, but it held in place. She pulled and pulled and pulled, then she let go. Blood was snaking up her hand, running under and over her clothes. She could feel its heat and stickiness and it made her nauseous. A hand grabbed her by the strap of her sword and flung her off the still-moving cart. Dust flew into her eyes as she rolled along the floor. Ciri coughed and spluttered, her eyes watered. She blinked back the tears and tried to get to her feet but she stumbled and fell to her knees. A padlock landed in front of her._

 _Gaunter O'Dimm smiled at her as he opened the door to the cage. She saw something glinting in his hand. He turned his back and knelt beside Yennefer._

* * *

Beads of sweat dripped onto the dirt which greedily lapped them up. She placed a hand on her throat as the cold air filled her lungs with each rapid, shaky breath. It left a foul aftertaste in her mouth that reached down into her throat. She gagged as her stomach lurched and lay back down, covering her eyes with her hands. Ciri's hairs were on end, her body quivering in the dirt even as her heart calmed, filth sticking to her body. Unable to bear the sensation of being buried alive, Ciri sat up, biting her tongue as her head and stomach protested violently against the movement.

Meticulously she wiped away the dirt - and whatever else rested upon this dead plain - from her body and grabbed her fallen cloak, drawing it closely around her. That's when she noticed the pair of eyes watching her, Philippa's magical vision pointed clearly in her direction. They stared at each other from across the camp. It was as though they didn't recognise each other anymore, the memory of their former selves dying along with their mortal vessels. When her eyes flickered away form Philippa's face she noticed something small and dark between her fingers which quickly closed around the object like a curtain. The Sorceress wasn't looking at her anymore.

Ciri swallowed and let her eyes wander. After a while they fell upon Geralt, who was sleeping close beside her, his back towards her. A little bit selfishly, Ciri wished she had woken him with her scream. Though she wasn't sure how much he would've been able to help her; after all, it had been her Mother who had banished the winged demon inside her head. The phantom had made her afraid of the night and the sleep which stalked it. When she'd met Yennefer, that had changed, and though sleep remained a dangerous place, Ciri had the courage to face it. It became a place of more than just nightmares, a place she could go to escape the troubles of her waking hours. In her dreams, she had freedom, a place to gallop through the fields with Yennefer and Geralt. The three of them together… When the world had first begun to collapse around her, that was the dream she most frequented.

* * *

 _Ciri carried the basket and followed after Yennefer as she disappeared into the trees with Nenneke's wicker chair. She felt the sun on her back and watched the shadows dancing in the grass as the trees, their branches heavy with fruit and leaves, swayed gently in the breeze. An apple fell to the ground in front of her and Ciri stopped to watch a small blue and brown bird peck and chip away at the fruit. She heard Yennefer calling for her. The Sorceress told her to hurry before the day was lost, but she did so with a smile on her face which seemed to make the world stop. Ciri loved that smile more than anything and wished she could see it more often._

 _They sat under the thin canopy of the trees for hours, Ciri resting her back against Yennefer's legs as her Mother stroked her hair. They drank, read, talked, ate and laughed; Ciri loved to make her laugh, it was a beautiful sound. For a long while, everything was peaceful. When the blue sky began to fade into orange, they packed their things away and held hands as they headed back to the temple. Yennefer listened patiently as Ciri talked about the dream she had last night, about them skating together on a lake of crystal ice. Now, she could see the temple in the distance. Then, all went dark. From within the nothingness that surrounded them, Ciri heard the beat of hooves. She looked around and saw him. Galloping towards them on his steed, a black armoured figure with a winged helmet through which red eyes glowed. Her body went rigid and cold. She could feel Yennefer pulling at her hand, hauling her away. The Enchantress' mouth was moving but she could not make out the words she spoke. The rider was almost upon them._

 _She was pushed behind a tree stump and she watched as Yennefer stepped between her and the phantom. Purple lightning crackled on her fingertips as she took aim. The bolt hit the rider in the chest; he swayed but stayed on his horse. Another strike, one after the other. The rider's pace slowed but he kept on track. He readied his sword. The blow bounced of the gentle blue sphere which surrounded them, sending sparks flying. Yennefer staggered, she was breathing heavily. The rider got off his mount and swung his sword through the air. Ciri pressed up against the wood and he laughed. Something warm spread over her body._

 _This time, Yennefer could not protect herself. A gauntleted hand grabbed her and spun her around. He pinned her against a tree by the throat, she kicked and squirmed, but his grip didn't loosen. Ciri tried to shout but she could not move a muscle, nor could she see her body. Yennefer looked at her…and smiled. The rider raised his sword. Sparks flew._

 _The Sorceress slumped to the floor as he released her. Geralt pushed the rider back, forcing him away from Yennefer. Swords clashed as they fought, performing an intricate dance. Just as the Witcher raised his weapon to deliver the final blow, the rider vanished into smoke and the darkness cleared. The warmth covering Ciri's body left. She scurried to Yennefer who was still lying on the ground and saw that she was still breathing. Ciri helped her to sit up before hugging her tightly inhaling her comforting scent. Yennefer stroked her hair and whispered affectionately, telling her that everything was okay. As always, Ciri believed her._

 _Then, there was an uncomfortable silence. Geralt and Yennefer were looking at each other as though they'd never seen the other before. Ciri looked back and forth, holding her breath. Everything was still and quiet. When Geralt held out his hand, Ciri felt her heart leap into her throat. She watched Yennefer for what seemed like an eternity before she took his hand. He helped Yennefer to her feet and they stood almost toe to toe. They smiled, and how happy Ciri thought they looked together. She squealed and hugged them both._

 _The three of them walked back to the temple, Yennefer and Geralt still holding hands. They were together, at last…a family. Everything was perfect, and the world was as it should be, at last._

* * *

 **Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince: Chapter 18, Sleeping Beauty**

"I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you."

* * *

Hello from Llangynog (Wales)! The internet in our holiday house is terrible and my family are very distracting and loud, but I'm here! I soldiered through with another update xD

Someone I've managed to sneak in rather a lot of fluff (given the circumstances) - no idea how but who doesn't love a good angst-fluff combo. You can always rely on me to tear apart your emotions….hahahahaha….

Anyhow hope you enjoyed, see you soon! Xx


	18. Sleeping Beauty

Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince: **Chapter 18, Sleeping Beauty**

"I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you."

* * *

 _Why the hell did I have to be so noble…I could be at home with Priscilla…_

Dandelion felt he was about to fall apart. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball, and slowly cry his life away, drop by drop. But the Bard had run out of tears a long time ago, weeping them all away until they were only a memory of the free life he once had. Indeed, he wasn't even sure he could remember what they truly were anymore and knew only that he wished to shed them again. That it would bring some relief.

Dandelion felt trapped. Dirt and blood hid most of his skin from sight and his face had hardened like a clay sculpture so that his expression rarely changed. He hoped foolishly that he might trip and fall, smashing against the hard, barren earth beneath his dead feet. That he might shatter into pieces, freeing his soul from inside so that this living nightmare could end at last.

How long had they been here? Dandelion could no longer tell nor recall where his body stopped and his pain began. More things hurt than they should. Things beyond his own body. His suffering knew no boundaries, not even the limitations of science posed an obstacle. O'Dimm made his own rules and these were determined by the expanse of his imagination.

He felt like a walking corpse. His weak and pathetic human body shouldn't be able to carry the burden of this immeasurable pain. He should be dead, and by Gods (should they exist or not) he wished more than anything that he was. Even nothingness had to be better than this existence. A lost and weary soul wandering the abyss, neither dead or alive.

Dandelion was at the back of the group, not that it mattered anymore. They were all just as slow as each other now. He kept thinking that maybe…maybe if he stayed at the back then no one would see him disappear if he willed his soul to leave. The door back home, it was just within reach. All any of them had to do was ask, each carried the choice to leave on their shoulders. And yet here they were, all of them, still wandering aimlessly.

Not for the first time, Dandelion questioned himself, asking why he stayed. They weren't getting anywhere, besides, what use was he really? He looked over at Geralt. The Witcher was someway in the distance but this place was so desolate that either one of them could be seen for miles. It was sad to watch his old friends back, still walking on and on and yet making no progress towards the end, because he knew that Geralt was never going to stop. At the end of time, he'd still be wandering this wasteland. He had nowhere else to go and too much to lose if he went back…

The thought had barely formed in his mind when Dandelion stopped dead in his tracks with wide eyes staring unseeingly ahead. With a shaky hand, he opened his pocket and gradually pulled out a worn piece of paper from inside. There was a single line written upon it with curvy, smudged letters. The Bard read it several times over, cementing the riddle in memory as his mind whirled silently behind hopeful eyes.

For the first times since landing in this forsaken place, Dandelion thought that things were looking up.

* * *

Geralt kept his sharp eyes focused as far into the distance as his mutations would allow, watching the very edge of the broken road as it grew and grew. He saw nothing else besides it for as far as he was concerned there was nothing else to see but the path ahead. Everything else that might exist outside his field of view was oblivion. He had only the future to look to and didn't turn away even as the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder in his ears. Anyhow, the gentle sound of clinking buckles and padded shoes were enough to tell him that Ciri was moving closer.

When her messy ashen hair stepped into his peripheral vision, Geralt half turned his head towards her so that he both her face and the path were in view. After a few seconds, in which neither of them spoke, he turned his attention back to the road completely but he couldn't ignore her soft footsteps just next to him. It was grating on his nerves, not for any particular reason mind, it just simply was. Perhaps he was simply used to the monotony here. The Witcher grew increasingly frustrated when Ciri offered no reason for her closeness, no question or conversation on her lips. Why else would she have moved?

"What's wrong, Ciri?" he asked quietly, without bothering to look her way. He could hear her fiddling with a buckle, the sound loud enough to wake the dead, at least as he heard it. Geralt could sense that she was uncomfortable and wished she'd made up her mind about what she wanted to say or to ask before she'd come up to him. There was no need for her to hover around.

Annoyed, he was about to ask again when she spoke. "Nothing, it's just…" she paused and Geralt bit back a groan. Her indecisiveness was making him anxious because he doubted that it was of any use here. There was no telling what O'Dimm would send their way but when push came to shove they needed to act fast. Uncertainty could be the death of them. Ciri took a deep breathe and continued. "Have you seen her here, Geralt? Have you seen Yennefer?" he nodded. When he looked at her at last, Ciri was watching him. "How was she, Geralt. Tell me true."

The Witcher studied her face for a few seconds, then turned back to the road. He watched his dirty boots gliding over the cracked earth as the chain around his neck bit into his skin. He pulled it out from his shirt, the smooth ring and medallion hooked together. He slid the ring further up the chain and rested it in the palm of his hand, watching his reflection. The wedding band felt as heavy as stone when he spoke.

"She was…sleeping."

* * *

 _He couldn't sleep no matter how much his body demanded it of him, his brain wasn't being cooperative at the moment. Head facing directly up at the bloody moon, Geralt kept twirling the wedding ring around in his fingers. He held it above his eyes and read the two inscriptions marking the smooth metal, the words already imprinted on his memory, and his heart. To his mind, they told the tale of his most heinous crime. 'I promise that I chose and love the man you are and that I'll love you forever', and 'Forever Your Yen' they read. Geralt read them countless times before finding that he couldn't lie there any longer._

 _He got up, buckling up his swords and brushing the dust off the cloak he had been sleeping on, fastening it around his shoulders. He walked around the encampment, looking at the horizon. As usual, there was nothing there. Despite his pain and fatigue, Geralt climbed a nearby tree, settling himself on a thick and sturdy branch. He gazed up at the discoloured moon._

 _He wished - not for the first nor last time - that it had been him who had died that night. Neither of them deserved the fate they had been given, not unless things had been in reverse. He wished he'd never taken that contract, but he'd wanted the money so badly; he needed it. It was all part of his big plan, his desire to take Yennefer far, far away once she'd finished helping Ciri settle into the Empire. All he wanted was to give them some peace and luxury, to rent a secluded cottage by the sea where they could relax and make up for lost time. There was a lot of it, after all._

 _After the discomfort became unbearable, Geralt made his way to solid ground. Several dead twigs snapped as he landed heavily on the ground and fell to his knees. He punched at the roots before getting a hold of himself. Never in his life had he felt this weak before, he was a bird without wings and he hated it. Legs shaking, Geralt managed to get back onto his feet without clinging to the tree for support, a small victory. He rested his back against the rough trunk, closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He could taste the death and decay which lingered around them on the tip of his tongue, but he was used to it by now. It had followed him long before this place._

 _When he'd parted ways with Yennefer, watching her disappear through a portal, he'd set out to make money the only way he knew how: contracts. Using his dreams as a guide, the Witcher has set out on the Path and for a brief moment, he'd lost sight of what was important…and now, he'd lost it. This was what it had cost him. Yennefer's death was on his hands, on the Witcher's hands. She died because of who he was, it was plain to see. He'd tried to make money the only way he knew how, and his better half had died because of it. If he'd been more human, Yennefer would still be alive._

 _Why had he gone back to the Path? It never gave nought to him, it only took time and time again and yet he could never keep away. The Path had cost him everything because he was too much of a monster to be caged._

 _Geralt looked down at the others, at their worried and fearful sleeping faces. He knew he'd have to leave them for a while, to stretch his legs. There would be no more sleep for him now, if ever, and he didn't feel comfortable just sitting here and waiting. He'd go as far to say he hated the idea. Instead, he decided to wander just a little way from camp, taking small steps so not to go too far. It was then that he noticed something strange in the distance a little to the side of the stretching road. A trail of smoke. He didn't hesitate to follow it._

* * *

 _After a few minutes, he was close enough to see a glimpse of the small fire from which the smoke had sprung, hidden in amongst a series of large rocks. He could hear nothing but the crackling flames and smell nothing but the oddly overpowering smoke, but Geralt was still cautious in his approach. Keeping low to the ground he inched towards the edge of the rocky enclave, flattening his back against the stone. He edged carefully around it, light flooding into sight as he peered around._

 _The Witcher stood still as suddenly a sound began to creep out from beneath the sounds of the fire. Soon it was loud enough from him confidently determine what it was. A heartbeat. Though he dared not dream it belonged to the figure prominent in his mind, the long forgotten and abandoned sensation of hope reared its head nevertheless. Sword raised, he stepped out from cover._

 _A large empty cage stood opposite him, bars encasing the back of an old, horseless cart. The fire was beside it, its flames illuminating the small figure who was huddled by one of the cart's great wheels. Their back was pressed against the wood, hands tied behind her back by what looked like thick, stone shackles. He could see her shaking in the heat of the fire, head bent forwards as something glistened on her face._

 _He could hardly bring himself to believe it was her. "Yen…"_

 _She quickly turned her head towards him. Yennefer's blurred eyes went wide as he took a step towards her. She shook her head and muttered unintelligible sounds through the piece of white cloth covering her mouth. A split second later something smashed into Geralt's side and lifted him off his feet. He was launched over the small fire and dropped his swords when he smashed into the hard ground, rolling and bouncing along it several times._

" _Good to see you again, Master Geralt. Tell me, how are you enjoying your stay so far?" The Witcher's eyes narrowed as O'Dimm stepped out from behind the cart, hands in front of him and his fingers steepled as he walked around it slowly, stopping beside his captive. The man smiled pleasantly at him and Geralt growled in return._

 _He didn't take his eyes off the merchant as he picked up his fallen sword. The man made no move to stop him but clicked his tongue in disapproval. "There will be no need for that, Master Witcher. Let us not descended into barbarism, I simply wish to talk with you man to man. And with no interruptions," he added, flashing a toothy grin at Yennefer who could do nought but glare. Geralt noticed that her body was covered in ugly bruises which hadn't been there the last time he'd seen her._

 _O'Dimm walked over to the fire and sat upon a fallen log, gesturing for Geralt to join him. He hesitated, then reluctantly sheathed his sword and accepted the traveler's 'hospitality', sitting at the edge of the light. Despite his claim that he wanted to talk, Master Mirror seemed content to sit in silence. He stoked the fire and moulded the smoke into swirling patterns and shapes, but Geralt wasn't playing him much mind. While he kept half an eye on the man at all times, his gaze could not help but wander to the woman by the cart who was watching him with an expression he couldn't quite explain. O'Dimm chuckled._

 _Geralt leant over, resting his arms on his legs and clasping his hands together tightly, making his knuckles go white. "What do you want?" he shot. Geralt knew, of course, that the man was trying to bait him, but he couldn't help but bite all the same._

 _The merchant shook his head. "Where are your manners, Geralt? You are a guest in my home, after all." He paused and Geralt let the silence grow. O'Dimm opened one of his satchels and pulled out a small glass flask filled with thick, red liquid. When he threw it in the fire, Yennefer started to scream. "Apologise."_

" _Please forgive me, Master Mirror, for my rudeness," Geralt said, his voice strained._

 _O'Dimm inclined his head, and the fire went out. Yennefer went silent, but the Witcher could hear her heart hammering against her chest. Geralt felt blood trickle down his skin as his nails dug into the back of his hand._

 _O'Dimm smiled. "Apology accepted. Now, to business. I have a deal for you, Master Geralt. Something which will make this game of cat and mouse even more interesting." The Witcher's stomach plummeted like a rock cast into the sea. He could see all too well his worry manifested in Yennefer's face, but he didn't have the will to leave. For whatever reason, he couldn't just walk away. Geralt felt he was cursed. "You want your fiancé to be safe and happy, I want you out of my hair once and for all so I can enjoy her…company. So, it seems we're at an impasse. Unless we compromise."_

 _A small cloud of dust rose into the air as O'Dimm got to his feet, pacing in front of the fire, occasionally blocking Yennefer from view. "Every now and then, should you move deeper into my home, I will visit you, Master Witcher. Each time I will come with an offering, a deal to make your beloved's life easier here and perhaps even enjoyable at times…if you promise to leave my realm immediately, that is."_

 _He turned on his heels and moved towards the cart. Geralt's hand twitched but he kept it at his side with great difficulty. O'Dimm looked over his shoulder and tilted his head. "Come, Geralt." Obeying Master Mirror went against every instinct he had, but he did so all the same. Anything to be close to her again._

 _As he was walking, the Man of Glass stooped over and hung something in front of Yennefer's face. A long piece of string with a black opal, or something of the like, hanging at the end. He slowly moved it back and forth and Geralt watched as her eyes slid shut. O'Dimm stepped back, moving out of the Witcher's way when he went to kneel beside her carefully touching her face. She looked...peaceful._

" _If you and your companions agree to leave now, then I promise you, Geralt of Rivia, that Yennefer will once again find peace in the confines of her slumber. As it was before, sleep will be a place of freedom, safety…and sweet dreams."_

 _He heard something click and the shackles around her wrists dropped into the withered grass. Geralt pulled down her gag and carefully picked her up, cradling her body. He remembered a time before they'd settled down, a time when the Hunt was still on Ciri's trail. When Yennefer had fallen asleep beside him, wrapped in his arms, he had known then that he would never forget how peaceful she looked in her sleep… How peaceful she looked now. How beautiful._

 _He stroked her cheek, the touch of her skin sending tingles up his fingers. There was still a small trace of perfume mixing with her natural aroma, he smelt it as he ran his fingers through her hair gently, brushing it away from her face. The calm rhythm of her heart, a melody like none other. He held her close, wishing the moment could last for an eternity._

" _I need no answer now, Master Geralt. Speak it when you are ready and I shall know, but for now, it's time for you to leave us. To wake." Geralt nodded._

 _Lowering her onto the grass, he felt as though he was about to bury a piece of himself. It was only the thought of what might happen to Yennefer if he disobeyed that made him comply without argument. Geralt took his time, however, making sure that she was comfortable. Her skin was cold and her hair standing on end, so he took off his cloak and placed it over her. Geralt took one last look. There was a tiny smile on her face._

" _Sweet dreams, Yen."_

* * *

Paulo Coelho - The Alchemist: **Chapter 19, What We Fear**

There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.

* * *

Yay! Another chapter with fluff! Hope you enjoyed reading it :) The next chapter is looking to be quite long as the first challenge is resolved, then we move on to new things xD


	19. What We Fear

Paulo Coelho - The Alchemist: **Chapter 19, What We Fear**

There is only one thing that makes a dream impossible to achieve: the fear of failure.

* * *

The desire to soak the parched earth with the Witcher's blood made him feel sick, and Istredd knew that as long as the Witcher walked alongside him, he'd feel hollow. He felt much like the shadows clawing at their feet, twisting out from the sharp rocks and trees. A distinct yet empty shape, flat and lifeless.

Istredd could think of no crueller punishment than his current reality. Stranded in a demon's playground with a monster prowling alongside him like an equal. The sight of its mutilated flesh and unnatural eyes kept his blood pumping, thawing his stiff joints and fending off the bone-rattling cold. How could it be that he was travelling with her murderer? And her tormentor. For as far as Istredd was concerned, in life, Geralt was no different to the Master of this place.

It pained him to think about the time those two had spent together. Of the precious years Yennefer had lost while in his grasp. The woman he knew had ambition and unlike most, power and talent to see them through. What might she have achieved if the Witcher had never stolen her life and twisted it into his own image? Where would she have been instead of this hell? He saw her life much like that of a flower. Her beauty and colour had withered in his shadow when, if left alone, she could have flourished. Istredd wondered if she'd ever realised just how much the Witcher had stolen from her. He himself couldn't bear to think of all she'd lost. Life was cruellest to the undeserving, her story had taught him that.

Istredd knew he would regret having to work with the Witcher until the end of time, but he was willing to endure anything for Yennefer. He had. If she only knew! How different Thanedd could have been...maybe she'd still be alive. He flinched as his fingers brushed against his neck. Istredd sighed deeply and dipped his head.

He'd been so relieved to see her again. Somehow, she was more mesmerizing than he'd remembered and Istredd questioned just how he'd gone so long without feasting his eyes on her beauty. And yet, as perfect as she seemed, her eyes were dull and the sharp edges that he'd loved were blurred. Gods, he fought so hard not to scream when he saw them. But at least, now, he could save her.

All he wanted was to get Yennefer away from that monster, whatever happened after that didn't matter, he only cared that she was safe. But his wishful thinking had left him blind. He should have known that it would never have been as simple as showing her the door.

He'd tried for too long to reach her. Istredd knew now that not a single letter had passed into her hands. No doubt all were thrown in the fire before her eyes even fell upon the seal. Yennefer must have thought he'd abandoned her, his heart throbbed to think on it. The Witcher had poisoned her mind, turned her against him. What vile lies had she heard which could have turned their love into…this?

Whatever hold that monster had on her was worse than he could ever have imagined. If he'd only been a little more patient, then he would have seen that! And things could have been so different…he could have saved her from this. Istredd only hoped that this time she would see sense. After all she had been through, because of him, Yennefer couldn't possibly conceive of going back into the Witcher's arms? Yet, he had seen her under the burning tree. Her love for the abomination had not wavered, not even as its sins were burnt into her skin. In death, she still suffered because of him, worse than that - suffered for him. Never had there been a greater injustice, and Istredd wanted to correct it more than anything in the world. This time, he would not fail.

The Mage stumbled backwards.

"What are you doing!" he spat at Dandelion's back.

The Bard was standing stock-still in the middle of the path, like a statue which had fallen from the back of a wagon. When Istredd shouldered past he heard the man muttering under his breath, and he smiled to himself. Perhaps he would finally be rid of the fool's company and along with him another offence to Yennefer's memory. He'd never met the man until now, but he'd heard of his reputation. If it wasn't bad enough that Yennefer had to suffer the company of that Witcher, she also had to face the constant scorn of his companions. He feared that she'd grown to hate herself as they did.

"I think your simpleton friend finally broke," he said, flashing his teeth at Triss as she looked over her shoulder. She didn't make eye contact.

Istredd hoped that she would be gone soon as well. The despicable traitor. How could she have done that to Yennefer? Betray her trust when it was so rarely given. Triss has been granted a precious gift, an opportunity to see her friend for who she truly was, to meet her sweet and vulnerable soul. And what did she do? Triss not only wasted this gift but tore it all to shreds in front of Yennefer's very eyes. Why was his beloved swarmed by such monsters? How could they so easily abuse her trust when the consequences of doing so were too distressing for him to think upon?

It was no surprise that Yennefer had pushed him away on Thanedd after everything Triss and Geralt had put her through. Who did she have to turn to? Poor Yennefer had been alone for so long… But he would help her remember; remember how to trust again. No matter how long it took.

* * *

She regretted her question as soon as the words had left her mouth. Ciri watched as Geralt's eyes grew heavy. She swallowed a sigh and her gaze dropped to the floor, following a small stone disappear into the dead grass as she kicked it with the side of her foot. Dark particles rose into the air as it vanished, several blades of grass crumbling under the weight. Everything in this place was brittle. Fragile morality.

"She was…sleeping."

Ciri winced. The crack of her neck followed the silence of his words, breaking it in a most unsettling manner. Under the crimson moon, the silver chain around Geralt's neck twinkled ethereally as he looked solemnly at his feet, a fist pressed against his chest into which the chain disappeared. She found the light enchanting, a lone star that granted the lost flock a hope to return from whence they came.

The Witcher was despondent as she looked upon the glowing symbol, likely possessed by the memory Ciri had conjured in his mind with a few simple words. She wondered if his mind had fallen prey to blissful reminisce but didn't hope that the thought was true. It was best to prepare for the worst, to always expect it. Optimism was a hamartia in this existence, and pessimism a guide.

Geralt didn't elaborate on his remark, so Ciri let the subject drop between them, though her mind was still drawn towards it. She began to imagine what 'unappealing' features the old Witcher had likely failed to mention. There was nothing else to think about and her head was crowded with morbid thoughts. And memories. Hunger, aching, loneliness...another never-ending journey. Hot grains trickling between her toes like swarming ants, her skin red and cracked, lips bleeding and drops splashing on the floor. Hatred her familiar companion, a comforting sensation that replaced the fantasy she thought was a dream come true. They'd abandoned her and the desert became her childhood graveyard.

Ciri drifted from Geralt's side, practically coming to a halt so she could fall behind him. He made no sign that he'd noticed, though he simply might not have cared, because neither did she. Other people - an unexpected burden she'd found weighing her down. She felt the feeble life inside her pseudo body being sucked away whenever anyone got too close. Their souls were incompatible, opposite forces compelling isolation.

Comfortable with the distance between them, Ciri fell back in line with the rest of the marching dead, but something still felt wrong; out of the ordinary. She looked over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. He was so close that Ciri could see Istredd's nostrils flare. She didn't bother wasting time trying to read his expression; it never changed.

The Mage held his nose in the air as he bustled past, overtaking her. Her skin crawled and the muscles in her sword hand twitched. Perhaps it would even bring her a little joy. But it seemed that Istredd was blessed with more luck than he deserved as he made it past unharmed. Over his shoulder, Ciri had spotted the backs of the two Sorceresses, covered in dust and sweat, returned to their former life of sewer rats lurking under the great 'free' city. They were huddled around another figure, Dandelion's flamboyant clothes occasionally appearing between them. Ciri's journey paused as she watched them curiously, admiring the strange display which had disturbed the normative order. She resisted the calls of the cycle, the echo urging her to join the march, as she tried to listen for the sounds outside her own head. Yet the silence was too thick and Ciri couldn't make out what they were saying, nor read their expressions or lips.

 _So much secrecy_ , she thought. _What were they planning?_ The thought of their treachery seemed to echo around her as two faces turned towards her, but Ciri stood her ground. Their bodies twitched as she watched them closely, following every little movement they made. When Philippa took a step forward a vibration shivered up Ciri's legs, tickling the soles of her feet. The sensation intensified as the Sorceress fell back in line, skirting around with enough room to make it feel personal. Triss was on her heels, though she didn't make a show of avoiding her and even had the decency to look at her when she brushed past.

Ciri shuffled her feet; she'd been standing still for too long and it was becoming uncomfortable. Her chest was tightening, but she couldn't move yet. She needed them all to be where she could see them, Dandelion included. Whatever second agenda the others were hiding, Ciri wouldn't let it interfere. It was out of the question, along with the limit on what she was prepared to do. Why try to keep bloodied hands clean? Besides, guilt was tomorrow's problem.

Unlike the others, Ciri's gaze induced no effect on the Bard. His ego was probably too thick for her glare to penetrate. Besides, he was probably well accustomed to such looks, considering he seemed to make a living from frequently being subjected to a woman's disdain. Dandelion's only desire was to be closest to the sun, Yennefer and Geralt were solid proof of that fact. He couldn't allow them to be happy.

Ciri's skin was beginning to tingle. She could feel the air rippling around her. It felt like she'd landed in a calm pool of static, energy shuddering around her as she made waves that broke only when they reached the end of the world. The pit of her stomach dropped to the bottom of the ocean before she resurfaced behind Dandelion. She was surprised and infuriated in equal measure when the Bard failed to acknowledge her sudden disappearance and this went doubly so when he scarcely flinched as she materialised behind him.

Ciri could see the hairs on the back of his neck and head standing on end as the energy fizzled behind him, but a brief quiver in his stubbornly even shoulders was the only response he granted. Dandelion had resorted to ignoring her, she supposed, unable to find suitable pleasure in conspiring behind her back. Either that, or he was acting the fool again, one of his most experienced and perfected facades. But he wouldn't pull the wool over her eyes. His simple words and blank looks might be enough to convince Geralt that he never meant any harm, that his sharp words and callous remarks were hollow, nothing more than innocent accidents, but Ciri knew better. Dandelion could try as he liked to worm his way into her good books and earn unworthy praise and high opinions, because when this ordeal was over he'd have to find something else to shit all over.

Heat was rising to her face, chilblains pricking her skin as the cold and stale air was repulsed by the heat. Dandelion was acting like a statue, arms drawn closely to his sides and head tilted down. His proximity was exhausting her and the sword on her back was becoming increasingly dense, pulling her backwards.

The young Empress stepped around him, purposefully moving into Dandelion's line of sight. He had no excuse for ignoring her now. Standing beside him, Ciri once again found herself devoid of recognition of any sort, even his eyes failing to flicker in her direction as had never happened to a woman before her. The sword pressed into her back as Ciri's hand curled around the strap across her chest. Rather than looking at her, Dandelion was fixated with whatever nonsense he'd scrawled across a crumpled scrap of paper which he held in his hands as though his life depended on it, the creases practically invisible as he stretched the paper thin.

"We need to go back."

Ciri frowned as the figure spoke in a hushed voice, the words seemingly addressed only to the silence around them. Dandelion raised the parchment and pressed it against his forehead, closing his eyes as though to see the words with his third eye. Ciri looked over her shoulder to see the others watching her from varying distances, blank expressions covering their faces. It had happened at last. Someone had broken and the first victim was hardly unforeseen. Though Ciri had to give credit where credit was due, even begrudgingly. Dandelion had lasted longer than she'd guessed, though his achievement came without bragging rights; her expectations were practically nonexistent to begin with.

Hesitating for a second following his words, Ciri placed a hand lightly upon Dandelion's shoulder. "It's okay, Dandelion," she said quietly. Ciri smiled as best she could when he looked at her sideways. He wasn't the only capable of roleplay. "You can go. No one here will judge you harshly for it. You're not cut out for this." She squeezed his shoulder in what she presumed to be a reassuring gesture and waited anxiously for his reply. Her dangerous fling at hope was abruptly ended, however, when he shook his head.

"No, no, no, you don't understand. This is important, please." Ciri blinked several times as Dandelion thrust his precious writing in her face, the paper almost touching the tip of her nose as he held it out before him like a holy text. "The riddle, Ciri-" She took a step back and swiped the scrap paper from him, the man giving a little whimper as it partly tore down the middle.

Without taking in the words marked across it, Ciri closed her hand around the pointless thing and threw it at his feet. Dust covered it as she turned on her heels and walked away. "Go home, Dandelion. You won't find any stories here."

"No!"

An uninvited hand found perch on her shoulder and the Witcheress spun around. She stared into Dandelion's wide eyes for an age before she caught sight of her reflection. For even longer still, she didn't recognise it. The blade hummed softly as it hovered over Dandelion's exposed neck, almost touching it when he swallowed loudly. Ciri's hand was shaking. Zireael's sharp and deadly tip traced a faint line in the dirt between them as she took a step back. She looked once more at the blade before sheathing it quickly.

 _Shit_. "I'm sorry, Dandelion, I just..." but she didn't know what else to say and trailed off. That this place brought out the worst in her? No.

He said nothing in response, bending down to pick up his precious, unfolding the paper carefully. Then he looked at her, holding the paper out as an offering. She took it.

"I'm not leaving, Ciri. You'll see." The young woman was confused when Dandelion smiled and took a step back, then another and yet one more.

He watched her as he slowly backed away, his blue eyes appearing almost like little lanterns in amidst the fog that seemed to cover the path behind them. She hadn't noticed it until now and the longer she looked at it the harder it became to breathe. The thick and swirling wall belittled her and the thought of what hid behind its screen was daunting. Ciri's muscles were so tense she felt they would rip apart or break her skin. The need to run emerged from somewhere deep inside her. Yet, even as it consumed her body she tried to ignore it. There was something unnatural about it, it was more overpowering and commanding than the instincts she'd learned to rely on.

Ciri tried to focus on Dandelion's face to resist its urges. He was the size of a halfling to her eyes when he stopped walking, his body almost completely merged with the fog. Then, the glow of his bright eyes was lost in the darkness as his lids drew shut. Slowly he turned on the spot. His body was shaking and convulsing, and he had to place his feet wide to withstand the force of the fog. It looked as though he was battling with the four winds atop an open mountain, but the grey blanket before her remained calm though intimidating, yielding to no wind.

Dandelion kept going, bit by bit edging further around and drawing more fog towards him until he vanished altogether, melting into the cloud. A silent cry lingered on Ciri's lips as she gazed into the nothingness which had consumed him. Something heavy settled on her chest after minutes of watching and waiting. Dandelion did not return. She'd fallen for yet more of his empty words.

Relief quickly fell over her like a safety blanket when she looked away from the bleak wall trailing her and before long its existence had almost completely slipped her mind. It seemed insignificant now. Further along the path, Ciri saw the others marching along as well and thought it best to forget all that had just happened. Besides, what skills did Dandelion have to offer here? He gave it an admirable try, but things were just better this way. Weren't they?

The Bard's farewell gift was still in her hand, rubbing against her numb fingers. She knew it was probably nothing more than a waste of time, still, she found herself curiously looking down at the small scrap of paper which had seemed of such importance to him. Ciri read the curvy and blotted writing in her hand.

* * *

Even without his special senses, the conversation was difficult not to overhear. The air was still and the smallest sounds rang like bells in his ears, no breeze or rustling of leaves to muffle them. Nothing but the abnormal and imprudent reminders of each other's existence sounded in this place. He would have preferred absolute silence over it.

Geralt didn't react when Dandelion found his way onto the end of Ciri's blade. It wasn't surprising. As a child, Ciri had always been rash and vengeful and perhaps fitted in with 'The Rats' far better than either she or anyone else was willing to admit. With an Emperor as a father and Witcher as a mentor, there'd never been much hope for her. If only he'd reached out to Yennefer sooner, perhaps he could have saved the young girl he was regrettably bound to. But he'd let pride get in the way of Ciri's one chance at normality and the consequences were all too clear.

He watched impartially from a distance not all that concerned with the outcome, he realized; it simply didn't matter. Besides, he shouldn't be here, there was nothing pleasant tying him to Yennefer. Even Philippa thought of her more fondly than Dandelion, unexplained and even begrudging respect holding together what some might dare call a relationship. But even as Yennefer had come to respect the unlikely friendship that Dandelion and himself shared, despite the toll it had upon her, the Bard didn't return the gesture in kind. He'd probably been happy when she died.

Geralt felt unreasonably disappointed when Ciri lowered her sword and muttered an unjustified apology, but the feeling soon passed, leaving him confused. He wasn't used to feeling this way; to feel this much. Everyone was still watching the display and it was peculiar to see them all standing still, though he couldn't quite pinpoint why. As Dandelion began to shrink into the distance something yet more perplexing overtook him. He felt he was being invasive, watching something not intended for his eyes. The Witcher knew he should've looked away, that it wasn't fair to make a spectacle out of Dandelion's weakness. He should've just kept walking, and he did.

He didn't need to watch to know that Dandelion had gone. Besides the fact his chest seemed tighter, he heard Istredd muttering to himself, and he sounded pleased. Geralt wondered how far they'd go together before the Mage turned. Whatever he might say, or whatever lie he had himself adopted as the truth, Istredd only cared to save Yennefer through pure selfishness. Even without his magic, the Witcher had learnt not to underestimate him. He'd have lost her to that mistake if Philippa hadn't intervened and yet...maybe Yennefer would have been better off if Istredd had taken her. Better him than O'Dimm anyhow.

The Mage was wringing his hands when Geralt looked over his shoulder and didn't appear to notice him. It's curious how bittersweet fate could be. They'd all called Istredd mad when he tried to rescue the woman he loved, or claimed to, and yet in one way or another he'd almost fulfilled those dreams. Perhaps he really was the monster Istredd saw him be. At times, Geralt wished Philippa hadn't stopped him.

Before he looked away, the other man caught his eye. Geralt had the unsettling feeling that he knew just what was on the Witcher's mind, though he made no comment. They didn't hold eye contact for long, their staring competitions well in the past, but Geralt didn't want the Sorcerer to think he'd been staring. As the sensation of being examined from the inside out filled him, the Witcher looked over Istredd's shoulder. Philippa and Triss were still several paces away and behind them - was the mist.

"Ciri..."

His cry echoed across the void and his words turned the heads of all before him, everyone peering over their shoulder to see what was no longer there. But Geralt couldn't trust in his own eyes, Ciri wouldn't have left. Not like this...

He avoided looking at Triss, unwilling to look upon the sympathy swamping her wide eyes. Instead, he pretended to stare off into the mist. It shifted under his eyes, responding to their movement in sync. Geralt didn't like it, to put things plainly. He'd seen Foglets manipulate the fog, but here it seemed to have a mind of its own, one that was listening to his thoughts. It felt like looking in a mirror, trying to make out the blurry reflection whose eyes follow you around the room and which is never quite the same no matter how long you looked. The Witcher blinked several times; he was getting a headache. It was time to start moving again, he'd feel better when he did. But he never got the chance.

He'd meant to go, but couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. He could watch for a little longer, surely? The chanting of the path had called to him more times than he cared to remember, but for Yennefer, he'd found the will to resist. For now, he needn't go anywhere. As the others marched forwards Geralt stood and watched, but rather than keeping his eyes on the sentient mist, he trailed Philippa's movements. She too seem captivated by the dancing swirls and stood as though scared the slightest movement would frighten the phenomenon away. Her back was stiff, shoulder bones pushing against her dress as she held her arms before her. It was disconcerting to see her so enclosed, shrinking away. She looked as scared as Dandelion had. Her movements were just as shaky and forced when she started moving into the mist.

For the first time since childhood, Geralt felt seasick. His wobbly legs carried him several steps back of their own accord, and after a few moments the sensation passed, but not before the mist had swallowed Philippa as well. Another person gone. Just like that.

The Witcher dropped down onto his knees, careful not to look at the mist. Already, this journey seemed doomed to end in disaster, unless...unless he accepted O'Dimm's deal. At least then this wouldn't have all been for nothing...

His medallion vibrated. Something slammed into his forehead and pressed against it. Geralt gently ran his fingertip over the foreign object. It was rough and thin. Fucking paper. He snatched the small scrap from his sweaty skin, not caring much to preserve it. Of all the things it could have been.

He screwed the thing up in his hands and got to this feet, turning his back on the merciless, twisting mass behind them. Perhaps it was upset he was ignoring it and decided to send him an angrily worded letter, he mused. He could either believe that or accept that it was what was left of his old friend, Dandelion. Just like his two swords, the Bard was rarely seen without his infamous ability to write, no matter the circumstances. Geralt went to tuck away the parchment in a small pouch but thought twice about it.

Ignoring the voice of better judgment, he opened up the badly worn piece of paper and read the still visible writing, undecided if it was for better or worse. 'The path ahead leads where you fear to go' it read. The signposts that had them trapped. But Dandelion hadn't seemed to think so. The riddle...Geralt was sure he'd mentioned it before...

While it felt like mere moments ago, the Witcher struggled to remember. Everything was mixed together here, no boundary of time to keep the shards of fractured memories separated. He could recall that Dandelion had pieced together the riddle, maybe that's what he'd been thinking of. But hadn't that been right at the beginning, weeks or even years ago? No, it felt more recent and...it felt sad. Why? Had he been upset that they'd answered the riddle wrong, that it was maybe even a red-herring. No, again it felt wrong. Something else about Dandelion and this riddle was hurting him. Maybe because it was the reason he left...

He wanted to go back, but didn't want to leave? It made no sense. For once Geralt wished he had listened to the fool, but...how could he have not. It was too quiet here to miss a word. He just wasn't looking at this right, he couldn't be.

Hot pins and needles pricked and cut his feet as the Witcher outpaced the march. Triss stared at him with dead eyes when he held out an arm to stop her. She seemed reluctant to do so.

"Something's wrong, Triss. Dandelion didn't want to leave us, but said he needed to go back, what do you make of this?" No response.

Triss' face seemed made of stone, an empty expression made of clay which had long since hardened. Geralt questioned how he'd ever found her childishness or optimism annoying, not when they were qualities the world so desperately needed. Gently, he squeezed her shoulders, holding her less than an arm's length away. He felt her shudder under the contact but chose to ignore it.

"Triss, please think. Dandelion, Ciri, Philippa...they can't all have left." He pushed the paper between her fingers and watched patiently as she unfolded it. A small frown creased her stone mask and Geralt spoke in a whisper. "What do you see, Triss?"

Slowly she looked up from the paper and stared at him. In that instance, he knew she saw the same. They really did have to go back...

* * *

Sabaa Tahir - An Ember in the Ashes: **Chapter 20, Tears of The Mist**

"There are two kinds of guilt. The kind that's a burden and the kind that gives you purpose. Let your guilt be your fuel. Let it remind you of who you want to be. Draw a line in your mind. Never cross it again. You have a soul. It's damaged but it's there. Don't let them take it from you."

* * *

Rather a long chapter compared to what I've written so far, though it looks like I'll be sticking with this format. A couple of different perspectives in this chapter, hope it wasn't confusing, I'm not used to writing from some many different angles at once. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, think I'm getting a little wordy again xD oops. Been listening to too much Lord of the Rings I suppose.

Please like and comment if you enjoyed this chapter/the story so far. It's such a great feeling hearing from you guys! Till next time Xx

PS: I've rewritten several chapters of Promises if anyone's interested in rereading my first story :)


	20. Tears of the Mist

**Sabaa Tahir - An Ember in the Ashes: Chapter 20, Tears of The Mist**

"There are two kinds of guilt. The kind that's a burden and the kind that gives you purpose. Let your guilt be your fuel. Let it remind you of who you want to be. Draw a line in your mind. Never cross it again. You have a soul. It's damaged but it's there. Don't let them take it from you."

* * *

Triss didn't say anything. She didn't need to. The look written across her face was answer enough. Geralt looked over his shoulder. He could see that the mist was thinner now and the long road back was visible between the swirling wisps. It looked unfamiliar in some way and Geralt found it hard to believe it was the same road that had brought them here, though he knew that it must be. He shook his head.

Triss was watching him, her eyes dull and glazed over, with her hands tucked under her armpits and he saw that her face was turning ghostly white. The Witcher knew he must look much the same as she, and he felt sad. He'd been lucky to go much of his life without fear, to stand within death's reach and yet not feel frozen by its gaze. How could anyone spend a lifetime feeling as he did now?

Geralt's eyes were beginning to feel dry and sore as he stared behind him. There were too many things that could go wrong, too many uncertainties and unknown possibilities hiding in the mist. But at the same time, that was how he knew he'd solved the riddle at last. That he was right. What Geralt was most afraid of did not exist in this Realm, but in returning home alone. In turning back. And it was paralyzing him.

The Witcher turned away from the mist and stared ahead up the un-ending road. Each tree stump and rock he could see already held a place in his memory for he'd seen them often now and they'd become more familiar to him than his home. Geralt saw that Istredd was some way in the distance now and he wondered if this would be the last he ever saw of the Mage. He hoped so. Closing his eyes, Geralt held the thought close to his chest and imagined how good it would feel to finally be done with him. If he turned back now, before Istredd noticed, maybe he'd be stuck here forever. Eyeing the man's back with narrowed eyes he brought to mind all that Philippa had told him about his plans for Yennefer on Thanedd and recalled her screams and her bruises. When he could see them clearly, Geralt tried to turn around

Something pushed against his shoulder and wrenched the air from his lungs. His knees went weak and he felt incredibly faint. Geralt closed his eyes; the feeling passed. A shiver crawled up his spine and passed straight through his chest dragging its claws. His breath clouded what little clear space there was between him and the wall of mist, which was not only closer than before but denser, too; he could see little within it now. The sight set his mind racing and in the confusion, he lost control of his anger which ran away with its tail between its legs. The Witcher was left feeling empty and dread made its way into the hole in his chest which felt tight and constricted. But though his heart had changed, Geralt's mind had not yet been swayed and he tried to let logic guide him.

He took a step towards the fog and thought for a moment that he saw something amidst the milky-white swirls. It appeared again when he moved yet closer still and after several steps, he thought he could make out the faint outline of a face. Whatever it might have been, however, Geralt paid it little heed. The conscious effort it took to walk was already taking its toll on his dreary mind and he had little strength to question what he saw. His toes now rested against the wall and even with his nose touching the mist, he could see nothing beyond it. When he went to take another step, he hesitated.

Something was permeating the silence, though just where the faint sound was coming from he could not tell for it seemed to the Witcher to be all around him. Someone was crying. The sound unsettled him and his face broke out in cold sweat as he listened. He turned this way and that but could not find the lonely crier. Geralt choked when he looked back at the mist. An overwhelming sense of intense despair had punched him in the chest, which burst with cold, and chilled all the air in his lungs. Again he'd seen the misty face and knew now who grieved. He'd have rather walked the distance they'd come a thousand times over than take a few more steps back, but when had life ever offered him a path he wanted to take? He should be used to it now. "Fuck it," he cursed. And the mist enveloped him.

"Geralt, please..." wept the voice. As it spoke he felt that something had brushed against his arm, yet when he looked there was nothing to see but a churning mass of white-grey wisps. The Witcher was careful to plant his feet as he turned his head, knowing for certain now that their direction was the only guide he had, being that even the ground beneath him was hidden from sight.

The voice was closer at hand and distinctly feminine, and he could hear the mournful figure choking between her never-ending sobs. He tried to ignore it as he walked blindly through the mist with small and sure foot-steps, but the crying grew louder and the bodiless face became more vivid and lifelike. He could see plainly that it belonged to a young woman with familiar features, but he never caught more than a sideways glance.

"Please, no! Don't leave me!" The hair on his arms and neck stood on end as an icy breath of air stroked his cheek and left it tingling. Geralt kept moving, biting his tongue as the woman cried and cried. A weariness had settled on his heart which troubled him greatly and slowed his pace far more than the weariness of his feet. He knew the mist was tormenting him, but it worked nonetheless. Whether it was truly her voice didn't matter, for the sound of Yennefer's tears and sorrow still weighed heavily upon him.

"Geralt, don't go, please...Please! Don't leave me here, please don't...Geralt..." He longed to pick up his feet and run towards the end but dared not risk such folly. Should even one step go slightly astray his path would be lost and he might never see nought but the mist again. Carefully and painfully Geralt kept walking, resigned to the slow torture of his march. The mist continued to accompany the disembodied voice, shaping itself into plaintive faces, disturbing and skull-like. Then, all at once, the mist ended.

He was standing at the edge of a small clearing as though in the eye of a storm, a place where the fog dared not follow him. But he was not alone. The soft murmur of lament which had followed him through the mist had at last gained direction, and he found it now curled up at his feet. A small bundle of clothes wreathed in the centre of the clearing, shaking with sobs that soaked the hard ground. Geralt watched as she cried, the weariness within his heart growing heavier until he felt that it would fall from his chest and shatter.

He'd seen Yennefer cry before, more often in dreams than in life, and they were not always full of sorrow but instead lit up her smile like diamonds. Geralt could not see her face as he stood with his back close to the mist, and he was thankful for it. He didn't think he could bear to see; here there could be no joyful tears. She cried endlessly without pause, Geralt watching over her like a ghost. He did not wish to hurry from the clearing and stayed for a short while until his heavy heart could hold no more grief. "I'm sorry Yen…" he whispered; Geralt tore his eyes away.

"No!"

A skeletal hand wrapped around his wrist and its sharp bones pressed into him, marking his skin. Yennefer's face was streaked with tears, some still rolling down her wet, splotchy cheeks as she looked up at him, kneeling at his feet. He could not comprehend the expression on his beloved's face, for it seemed impossible that a woman such as she could look so sad and desperate. Red and puffy eyes spilling a river down her face and neck as she whimpered and pleaded.

"Geralt, please don't go, don't leave me here with, with- I can't! I can't...no..." She sputtered and gasped for air, clutching her throat but still holding him firmly.

The Witcher said nothing, for he had nought to tell her. What words did he posses that could ease her suffering when all acts of reassurance were riddled with lies? Perhaps he had given in and failed her so early in their wandering. Maybe this whole journey was pointless, either a trick born from his own imagination or the fancy of O'Dimm in his endless pursuit of misery. Whether she could hear his thoughts or read them on his features, she knew them plainly either way as her eyes grew wide.

"No...no..." she mumbled almost inaudibly. Yennefer's head dropped and her uneven shoulders shook. Geralt saw nasty cuts, long and deep, scarring her back which was bruised and twisted, spine poking through like ridges. She was muttering gibberish under her breath, her head twitching and rolling around. Geralt closed his eyes and rubbed his palm over his tight chest. He wished that he could comfort her while knowing that he could not, a pang made worse by the truth that he was to blame for it all.

Yennefer's grip had loosened, and slowly he pulled his hand away till her arm fell lifelessly by her side. He could hear the constant pitta-patter of tears splashing onto the floor as she cried silently to herself, cuts on her back tearing open and bleeding anew as she curled in on herself. Geralt looked away without a parting word and hurried towards the mist. Yennefer screamed.

"Nooooooo!" The shrill cry pierced his ears and the Witcher winced, clenching his jaw. He tried to step back into the mist which hovered before his chest but hadn't even the chance to lift his foot as claws scraped his upper arm, tearing at his skin and digging deep into his flesh. Geralt howled as Yennefer clung to him, trying to force him away from the cloud and blinking back tears. "I don't want you to go. Geralt! Geralt, no. Please!" she wailed.

Yennefer screamed loudly and whimpered as she fell backwards into the dirt. She curled up tightly into a ball, her nose bleeding freely over her cracked lips, and she did not get up again. Shaking, Geralt ran.

* * *

He was beginning to worry. A long time had passed since he'd entered the mist, too long in fact, and still, he found himself alone with nothing but a lonely mountain beside him. Its looming presence cast doubt across his mind as he sat and waited in its shadow. Dandelion wondered if anybody had followed him through the mist but quickly cast the thought from his mind. He couldn't bear to think upon it, for he would be glad to see even Philippa's face on the horizon.

Despite the long and weary road which had carried him here, in which he'd known nothing but pain and misery, Dandelion was starting to feel restless. When he could no longer count the hours he'd spent sitting alone at the edge of the mist, he decided it was time to venture out. Perhaps the others had trod a slightly different path and passed him altogether. Standing atop his boulder, Dandelion could see clear, high ground in the distance, two miles away at his guess, and reckoned that from there he could get a good lay of the land. Invigorated by his renewed purpose, the Bard took one last look at the mist which for so long had been his only company, before setting off.

Though the land rose steadily towards the mountain, the trek was hard and strenuous, the ground laden with uneven footing. Other than a brief glimpse of the mist which encircled this solitary island, all else that Dandelion could see was painted grey. Forests of stone overshadowed him. Great mounds were stacked around him and pieces of rock stood as tall and proud as lighthouses while others looked as though they could only have been carved by hand, bent and twisted into strange and many-limbed shapes, like petrified trees. He was a man walking in a land of giants and felt as small and weak as a child.

He marvelled at the strange forest as he walked under its heavy boughs. The pain and toil of his previous journey no longer encumbered him and the pang of weariness and hunger was easy to bear and to forget. The base of the mountain grew closer as he climbed and he felt as though he was making progress and drawing to his destination. Dandelion only wished that he wasn't alone.

Though the crimson moon still hung above his head, this place could not have been any more different from the first. It felt busy and crowded, always something new to look upon while the landscape itself challenged him at every turn, breaking his monotonous march with steep and difficult climbs. The rocks creaked and groaned in the wind, the breeze wrapping around their trunks and gliding between the stones. It sent a shiver up his spine but Dandelion didn't much care; he was simply glad to have something to listen to.

His hands throbbed dully as he scrambled up a small cliff, finding perch on the roots which clung to its side. As he dragged himself onto higher ground something strange and foreign sounded in his ears. The noise was gentle and calming, a flowing sound which seemed to pull at distant memories. It grew clearer and louder as he continued to the mountain and though he could not tell why, Dandelion felt giddy with excitement. Without much thought he picked up the pace, eagerly drawing closer to the comforting sound. He thought happily of long summer days outside of Oxenfurt, sitting with friends by the Pontar as they toasted another year of study gone by.

Time quickly passed by and soon he found himself at the edge of a gully. It was shallow, no deeper than the height of a male dwarf, and several times as wide as one. Small, stained stones reared their heads above the flow of the gully, drops of blood smearing their tips. Dandelion gasped at the red stream and its scent filled his mouth and nostrils. He felt light-headed and fainted, coming to as his behind fell against a boulder. Leaning over its side, he choked and gagged, spittle running down his chin.

He'd seen the streets run red with blood in the wake of the Witch Hunters and the soaked bandages holding a Witcher together, but this was something else. The blood of a thousand men ran along the gully, a culmination of countless battlefields and darkened streets. Dandelion could hear faint murmurs amongst the gurgles of the stream and a scream got caught in his throat. He knew he'd have to cross.

His lips and chin trembled as he crawled right to the edge of the gully. He retched and buried his mouth and nose deep in the crook of his arm. The stench was still overwhelming but it stopped his head from spinning even as his stomach churned. Very slowly, like he was trying to take the stream by surprise, he lowered himself to the base of the gully, careful not to let his feet drop anywhere near the red stream. The murmuring was louder now and he screwed up his eyes as the shrill voices moaned in his ears. Dandelion's body went stiff as he looked closely at the stream, sick scratching and burning the back of his throat. He picked out several rocks amongst the red which he could use to pass and steeled himself.

He couldn't remember quite how he'd passed, perhaps the memory was too horrific to store, but he knew that he'd fled from the gully as though death pursued him.

* * *

He stopped running when there was nowhere else to go. The stone forest finally gave way to the mountain which belittled it, flocking around it like sheep. The smell which had followed him escaped into the open air and Dandelion could breathe again without fear of being sick. He sat upon a boulder, tracing the lines and cracks of the rock as he rested. They were numerous, and he felt as though each told a story, like the palm of a stranger's hand there was much to see under a watchful eye. The island seemed older than life itself, withstanding the levy of time which wrought death upon those whose days were numbered. He could feel it by some means and knew without a doubt that he was right.

Dandelion's hand trembled against the unyielding stone, his sweaty hand tracing faint lines over its surface. He feared that all the courage and strength he'd found at the edge of the mist lay buried under the stones of the ancient forest, leaving only rattling bones behind. The hope he'd carried with him had been reduced to ash before the fire had even the slightest chance to grow. O'Dimm did not allow such threats to linger in his land for long, though long enough to leave its hosts feeling empty without it. All the same, no matter what was said or done, Dandelion couldn't wait here for long. He had no choice but to move on, whether he was truly ready or not didn't matter.

The base of the mountain rose just above the treeline and from here he could see the familiar mist which had trailed them as it halted at the edge of the forest and circled around. He could also see the stream running down from the mountain some way in the distance, occasionally spotting it amongst grey trunks and stumps as it wound its way out towards a red lake which spanned far into the distance, the moon dancing upon its surface. Looking to the west side of the mountain, he saw a break in the trees which ran up towards the mountain, its end hidden from him. Perhaps it was a path of some sorts, he supposed, though the thought wasn't reassuring. It seemed to him that the island was steering them towards the mountain like lost cattle, and he was troubled to think that their journey may take them to its peak.

With despair still creaking in his bones and terror lingering in his heart, Dandelion continued on his way as he knew he must, encouraged with the prospect of leaving the bloody forest behind him. He kept close to the mountain, favouring the steep and challenging climb around its base over another trip beneath the towering stone. It also helped to keep him occupied so that his thoughts did not stray into darkness as they had done time and time again. Never before had Dandelion stood amongst a mountain's roots and he tried to imagine how different a place could look from up above. What a wonder it must be to see one's home like a bird does. He hoped he'd have a chance to experience it one day, perhaps to view the majesty of Beauclair from Mount Gorgon's peak. What a wonder that would be...

With the river miles behind him, the path had begun to grow. Just as he had guessed, it ran high up into the mountain and straight into the clouds which shrouded it. Dandelion sat and rested for a while. His feet and hands felt raw and inflamed and he took off his shoes to let the cold air smooth over his skin. Feeling something akin to content, he watched the path carefully and without haste, looking it up and down. His heart jumped when something moved out of the treeline and at first, he thought for sure it was one of his companions. But he could not catch sight of the figure again and his eyes became tired. Perhaps there was hope after all, even if only faint and fleeting.

He considered whether he should try to find the lonely traveller but chose instead to stick to his course. Sooner or later their paths would cross and he'd rather wait alone at the mountain than risk losing himself in the forest. Dandelion screwed up his eyes as he wrestled his feet back into the hard leather shoes, cursing himself for stopping as he hobbled along. The moon stubbornly watched over him as the last mile of his hike passed uneventfully and with one last climb, he came to even footing.

Though his earlier misgivings remained, along with the sense of fear they evoked, Dandelion passed into a state of euphoria when his feet crossed the path. His aches and pains dulled as he walked across its even surface, the stone cut clean and smooth and without so much as a chip daring to maim its perfection. For a short while, he ambled up the mountain, rising a few metres above its base before finding a seat on one of its many great steps. He spread his hands widely over the stone, pressing his palms flat against its surface. Should steam have risen between his fingers, Dandelion would not have been all too surprised to see it. It felt like he'd dipped his blistered hands in a pool of cool water.

Not knowing how long his peace would last, Dandelion settled himself comfortably against the mountain as he watched the path and waited. His eyes looking straight down its middle, he knew for certain that his earlier hope had not been in vain and that another figure walked on the island. Though he couldn't tell for sure, he thought the wanderer to be Geralt, and he had faith in his guess. Dangerously his spirits rose and his heart felt lighter. If the Witcher had come then truly the journey continued and not all had been lost in the mist.

"Come Dandelion, what use is there in pretending? You shan't fool anyone, least of all the Witcher." The Bard inhaled sharply and choked. "Be careful now, Master Poet. It would be such as shame for you to damage your voice as darling Priscilla did. A shame indeed, she used to sing so beautifully and now she'll never sound the same. Here."

Dandelion stared bug-eyed at the simple wooden cup in O'Dimm's hand, which he offered to his guest with a smile that put him at ease and made him question quite why he'd been so afraid. For all his shortcomings, Master Mirror was a civil man and he upheld common courtesy better than most in their troubled world. It would be rude on his part to scorn good gamesmanship, especially when he did not count himself among lesser men. He accepted the offering and drank the water greedily, marvelling at how something so plain and unassuming could offer him as much relief as it did. Perhaps there was something in the water which made him feel this way; it was wonderful. He inclined his head in thanks, passing back the cup which O'Dimm drained.

"The others are coming, Master Dandelion, but you've much time to pass till then. Might I stay and talk with you a while?"

"But of course," he replied at once. He could of think of no reason to stop him or to deprive himself of welcoming company.

"Splendid," said the merchant as he seated himself beside his new companion. "I must confess, Master Poet, that I am impressed with your skill in words. Have you often taken fancy to riddles?"

"Indeed, though it was a lifetime ago, back when I studied in Oxenfurt. The riddles we told would keep many up throughout the night, but I took to them rather well and it seems the skill hasn't left me yet."

O'Dimm hummed softly in reply. The man, or whatever he was, watched him curiously and though his expression was genial his eyes were sharp and piercing. Even with a smile plastered across his face, its light did not reach his eyes, which seemed dark and bottomless and Dandelion shivered as he stared into their depths.

"Oxenfurt, the city of the youth and of the arts. A marvelous place. I wonder, Dandelion, shall you return to your beloved city once you've departed from this place? I expect that a Master of the Arts, such as yourself, longs to find themselves in front of pen and paper again, in a quiet corner of your study. You shall have much to write about when the trip is done, I don't doubt. This quest will have been most fruitful for you, people will flock to your stage to hear of your adventure in my Realm and I'm sure that, given time, the Witcher will forgive you."

"What do you mean?" asked Dandelion. O'Dimm didn't reply straight away and looked down at him, seeming to have grown impossibly taller in the space of a few seconds. He wished he could get up and walk away, but the man's gaze held him firmly and Dandelion was too afraid to run, so he just sat and waited.

"You needn't play the fool with me, Master Poet, but if you insist on keeping up the facade then allow me to enlighten you. It would be a pleasure." O'Dimm held the empty cup aloft and poured a stream of water upon the stairs on which they sat.

The drops swam across the stone and joined together in a circle. The water was strangely clear and reflective and as Dandelion looked upon it the surface rippled and altered. Though he began to feel queasy he felt drawn to the pool and watched it intently. It glowed with a faint silver light and he saw at first what he thought to be a reflection, but it did not show him as he was. Rather, the man appeared younger and more vibrant, perhaps a remnant of his former self and life outside this place. He felt jealous of it and forgot all about O'Dimm for a moment.

"You've often made clear your opinion of Geralt's beloved, and your dislike is as plain to see as the sun and the moon. So, you needn't lie about your hopes for the journey; I know you do not wish to see it through to the end, that you search only for a story and not to cheat me." Dandelion looked up from the pool and stared at him with wide eyes. O'Dimm chuckled and leaned over to place a hand upon his quivering shoulder. "I know that, good man, don't fret. None shall hear of this from my lips," he reassured him, "though I doubt it needs to be said to be known."

Master Mirror looked away and drew his hand towards the water, tracing a finger through it. Dandelion's eyes followed him and they watched the pool change in silence. The image he'd thought to be a reflection moved of its own accord, and he realised its words were familiar to him.

 _"And what of you. Do you have anything to fear from the Lodge?"_

 _"No, Dandelion, I do not. Though quite why any of that is your concern alludes me."_

The image was small and dark but there was no mistaking the second reflection. His younger self was sitting at the edge of a dimly lit cave, crystals shedding light on his face which was moulded into a hideous smirk. Across from him stood Yennefer, alive and well, huddled in the corner.

 _"Because, Yennefer," he drawled, "I would appreciate knowing whether or not you intend to drag my friend here," he pointed at a figure outside of the water, whom he remembered to be Geralt, "into more trouble."_

 _Yennefer's eyes narrowed. "Why would I, Dandelion, when you fulfil that role so dutifully?" she said coldly._

 _"At least I don't do it on purpose."_

Dandelion recalled this night well. That was where it all started, this business with O'Dimm. The cave had toppled down on their heads, and it was only because of Yennefer that he'd survived. Even after all he had said. Nothing had been the same since then. Nothing.

 _"What exactly is that supposed to mean, Bard!" she hissed, hands gripping her hips. Several of the crystals pulsated violently and he winced as the light burned his eyes._

The Bard watched as he waved off the Witcher's warning. Why did he always think he was right? He wished he'd listened. " _This wouldn't be the first time that the Lodge has tried to use Geralt like a tool, nor would it be a first for you either."_ His voice died away in an echo and the pool went still and silent. The image faded and the moon reappeared in the water. Some way in the distance, Dandelion thought he heard a woman cry, but it might have been him who whimpered.

"Yennefer could never do enough to please you," O'Dimm whispered. He could feel the man's cold breath against the side of his neck and his skin came out in goosebumps, but he didn't pull away. For his own reasons, he neither would nor could. "Even as she lay dying beside Geralt on the bloody streets of Rivia, you doubted her. Doubted that she could feel anything but contempt in her shrivelled heart, and she knew just how you felt. Oh, how it hurt her. And then, when she was given a second chance, you did all you could to keep her away from him. You were happy when the Witcher lost his memory, weren't you? Yes...I think you were. After all, you welcomed Triss to his side with open arms, not once thinking about poor Yennefer. She cried when I showed her the time they'd spent together, to see him so happy at another woman's side while she'd been all alone with no one to give her a name. Did you even care that she might be dead? Did you, Dandelion?"

He didn't respond, though an answer had quickly risen into his head. O'Dimm didn't need to hear it, of course. The all-knowing asked no questions to sate their curiosity but rather to delight in watching their truths haunt the unfortunate few who could answer them. Besides, he was too ashamed to speak.

The pool was shifting again and this time a new memory played, though he knew it not to be one of his own. It was the same night as before, that he could tell, for he looked upon the mouth of the cave. The storm which had chased them ravaged the grassland outside, uprooting trees effortlessly. A perfect beginning to this nightmare. The water carried him further into the mouth and he saw a figure emerge from the tunnels. Yennefer briskly walked forwards, passing by their horses and luggage. She was standing close to the edge now and the storm whipped her hair and face, a light drizzle splashing against her pale skin.

For a while, she did not move and started out into the storm. Then, the tension in her shoulders and face dissolved and she fell against the wall of the cave. Sharp stones dug into the unprotected skin on her arms, but she didn't seem to care and the rocks scraped against her arm when she wrapped them around herself and shivered. Dandelion could see her lips paling in the cold and her eyes glazed over.

Yennefer flinched when Geralt walked up behind her but she did not scorn him as the Bard had expected. Instead, she appeared to ignore him, though her eyes were clear and focused. The Witcher held her firmly in his arms, tracing kisses over her shoulders and neck. When Yennefer spoke again, he hardly recognized her and would never have believed her voice could sound so soft and gentle if he'd not seen it from himself.

 _"You, Ciri…the opinions of those close to me, those are the ones that matter. But I'd be lying to you, Geralt, if I said that I've not grown weary listening to the opinion of…certain others."_

 _"I know, Yen," he said sadly, "and I'm sorry."_

 _"You, Geralt, have nothing to apologise for."_

 _"But I want to, Yen, because… I can't promise it will ever change."_

 _Yennefer sighed and with her eyes tightly closed, she turned her head to the side and buried it in the Witcher's shirt. "I know…"_

The light of the pool fizzled away and the water spilt over the step, trickling slowly down the mountain. But Dandelion couldn't see the droplets rolling away, his head was buried too deep in his hands for anything but the darkness to greet his bleary eyes.

Dandelion would never tell anyone about what happened. Years later, he'd try to remember just what had been going through his mind when he welcomed Master Mirror to sit with him, but for all the time he'd spend thinking he'd get nothing in return. How they'd come to share a drink atop of a mountain he could not explain, though it was clear to him why O'Dimm had come. He carried his shame to the grave.

* * *

 **Bridget Asher - The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted: Chapter 21, Blood Mountain**

"This mountain, the arched back of the earth risen before us, it made me feel humble, like a beggar, just lucky to be here at all, even briefly."

* * *

5,727 words, my longest chapter yet! Hope you survived this train wreck of feels and enjoyed (maybe?) the ride. For now, I think I'll stick to long updates, I'm finding it much easier this way and I see that difference in my writing. New chapters, therefore, are likely to come out once a month, but often (I hope) I'll post some shorter stories, mostly prompts from Tumblr, between updates.

If you've enjoyed this chapter/the story so far please consider leaving kudos, commenting and/or reblogging my story on Tumblr. Having active readers makes my world go round (love you guys). Follow me on Tumblr (same username) for updates and prompt lists (I will be doing a badthingsbingo) :) Xxx

PS: the memory Dandelion revisits takes place in the first story (Promises of Love, and Death); it is one of the scenes/chapters I've updated in my rewrite


	21. Blood Mountain

Bridget Asher - The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted: **Chapter 21, Blood Mountain**  
 **"** This mountain, the arched back of the earth risen before us, it made me feel humble, like a beggar, just lucky to be here at all, even briefly."

* * *

The trees did not yield to the call of gravity as she clambered amongst their branches. They stood proudly upon the barren ground on which they grew, trunks and boughs fixed and unflinching; not even time could touch them. Perhaps its invulnerability to such a force was supposed to cause her fear. Indeed, the lack of life and company was most unpleasant, even the sight of wilted trees and dead grass, as she'd seen before, would have been more welcoming. Yet, this place struck an accord with her; to Ciri it was nought but a wasteland, one amongst many. She'd learnt early on in her travels that death united people as much as life and that amongst all the worlds she'd seen, war was universal. Inevitable, even.

Much of Ciri's life had been spent trying to outrun it. Only within recent years had the hunt ended, with an outcome that had little in her favour. Many sleepless hours had passed within a thought of what worse fates she had avoided, but they were far too few in number. Perhaps she'd inadvertently chosen the worse path. A fool she'd be to think that her life upon a golden throne would pass by with no mention of the monster that had burnt Cintra to the ground and then tried to destroy the life she'd built in its place. Perhaps she was doomed to become a pawn of that which had cast its shadow upon her childish face and introduced her to a darkness that blinded her despite the light of day.

Ciri did not yet know the extent of her sacrifice when she'd accepted Emhyr's offer, the life she desired could be no more different than that which she'd found behind Nilfgaard's high walls, but it was there that she could make a difference. Though, for all her good intentions, war would come. Such was the circle of life and she wondered how many more people would celebrate her death now that the reach of her blade spanned cities. The thought made her sick. As far as she was concerned, Ciri would be glad if time forgot her name and lineage, she had no desire for the blood she'd shed to stain the pages of history.

With a thin line of sweat drenching her brow, Ciri sat for a while amongst the trees, tracing the edges of the rock. She cut her finger on a gnarled branch and pressed a bloody fingerprint upon its immaculate surface, enjoying the sight of colour and life upon the stone. Though tired, she did not linger for long as the thought of the mist grew heavy in her mind. A trail of blood marked the tree trunk as she dropped down to the forest floor and jogged towards the mountain.

Without the cover of the trees, her skin began to crawl in the moonlight as she hugged the mountain's edge. It was the one thing about this land that surprised her, the many moons and stars she'd seen showed no resemblance to that which hung high above her in this Realm. As she craned her neck to watch its crimson hue, Ciri stopped. Something dark had passed over its surface, a shape which now flew above the treetops. It, to, seemed to be aware of another's presence for it quickly turned towards her, two specks of yellow penetrating the grey space that stretched out between them. She watched it with a careful eye and did not lower her weapon when it appeared that danger had passed.

Whether Philippa felt the same sense of pressing uneasiness as she, Ciri couldn't tell, but the Sorceress kept ten paces between them and did not move from where she'd landed. She looked to be another person under this sky, Ciri thought, blemishes disgracing her porcelain face. Copious strands of her hair were out of place, and her dress looked to have been worn for many days. For the first time, she looked more human than painting. However, one thing about her remained unchanged; the biting clarity of her voice.

"Have you seen Triss? The others have gathered at the foot of the mountain, less than two miles the way you're heading, and only she remains unaccounted for." Ciri shook her head and Philippa scowled, though she wasn't quite sure what the Sorceress had expected from her. If they had met in the forest then why would they have parted company? Perhaps she judged Ciri to be done with the thought of company, and on that account, she struck not far from the truth. "I'd not be surprised if she'd not passed through the mist," Philippa continued "but I might still find her crying in the forest, I suppose. Whether she is to be found or not, do not wait for my return."

Ciri did not reply, rarely did the Lady expect answers to be given, and watched the owl take flight from the mountain's side before it began to circle over the tips of the stone forest. The bird was not yet out of sight when Ciri too continued on her way. Her mind found its way to thoughts of Triss as she closed the distance between her and the others, as Philippa had said. The subject was a tricky one but that was not out of the ordinary, never had the matter of Triss been simple since the moment they meet on the road to Kaer Morhen. It was sometimes hard to equate the young Sorceress, who stood in stark contrast to many of her kind, with the harm she'd caused and Ciri often had to remind herself of what had passed while she'd been away.

Confusion was the feeling most pronounced as she remembered all that Geralt had told her on the road to the Sabbath and that which she'd learnt by herself. She'd always liked Triss, indeed she still did, looking upon her as a sister and perhaps that was why her heart was in such a muddle. Ciri had much to thank the Sorceress for and would not willingly part with the memory of their time together, yet she strongly desired to see no more of her than a chance meeting once in a blue moon. Her company was generously given and could be well spent by some, Ciri among them, but for others, her presence carried much trouble with it and it was hard to say whether it was brought or had followed.

Part of her wanted to feel sorry for the other woman, but too much was at stake for her to let slip her guard. There was no room in her little family for a sister, especially not one who desired to be much more than that.

* * *

 _Many worlds had gone by since she'd last stood upon the ocean and felt its rhythm beneath her feet. Ciri found the emptiness of the open water calming, feeling for a moment free of the worries borne by pursuit. The strong breath of the sea ravaged the ship, the wind getting caught within its mighty white sails and bearing it quickly from the continent. Behind closed eyes, she listened to the bough of the ship as it cut through the waves and plunged her mind into the ocean's depths. If there was but one sight she could see before the end of days, and by whomever's hand it may come, be it that of the white frost or of man's, she'd long wished it would be a glimpse of the ocean floor. She'd never had a chance to look upon it in all her travels._

 _"Crach once told me a tale about you and the sea, Ciri, one I found hard to picture until now." A tap, tap, tapping sounded through her thoughts and a smile graced her face; the smell of the ocean and of labouring men and cheap ale could not mask Yennefer's tell-tale scent, nor hinder its intensity._

 _As the Sorceress approached her, the eyes of many men upon her, she wondered when last Yennefer had set foot upon a ship's deck and how often she had frequented the sea. Ciri was sure that Yennefer had once professed to her a displeasure for sailing and her hostility towards the water seemed not to have wavered. She was amongst the last board the vessel and did not look upon the water for long._

 _"What exactly was it that he said, for you to doubt his word?" Ciri asked.  
_

 _"He told me that you found peace out on the water."_

 _"Why do you find that so strange?" Yennefer laughed faintly, allowing only Ciri's ears to listen to its sound. Too seldom had she heard it, especially within recent days, and little of the light from her smile reached up into her eyes as it had before Rivia...and Vilgefortz. The world was growing dim and cold and she could see its weight upon Yennefer's shoulders, though she did not doubt the sincerity of her laugh._

 _The Sorceress, who was smaller than her by an inch in spite of her monstrous heels, folded her arms and looked upon Ciri as though she was wasn't only a few feet off the ground. Yennefer's short stature had always amused her and she'd once joked about it when they'd trained at the temple; she'd not made that mistake again.  
_

 _"Because you were a little beast of a child, Ciri, a fault for which the Witchers are no doubt partly to blame. You acted as though the temple were a cage and would never stay in one place without the force of threats to weight you down. And yet, Crach claimed you'd happily stay within a small wooden tub for days on end, that the waters used to calm you."_

 _"They did and still do for the same reason I suppose. I fell free out here, though you've now made me aware of how odd that sounds."  
_

 _"It makes sense to me," said Yennefer, her tone peculiarly hushed and muted, Ciri thought, as though the wind had taken the strength from her voice. Over her shoulder, the Sorceress looked out at sea, to all appearances, watching the waves shred the sunlight. But Ciri could see that her eyes were cast downwards and her thin, pencilled eyebrows slightly arched. Ciri waited to see if anything else would follow her words and looked away from Yennefer's face feeling unexplainable intrusive. She saw Geralt standing within the shade of the cabin and noticed his eyes upon Yennefer's back. For a moment they flicked towards her and, taking her glance as an invitation (or perhaps a plea), began to walk across the deck. It was then that the Sorceress spoke again._

 _"I don't remember much of the place you took us to, Ciri, Geralt and I...but I recall feeling much the way you do here. While the island was small, not much bigger than the space between Kaer Morhen's walls, I felt nothing could reach us out there. That we'd be safe - unreachable."_

 _Ciri shuffled her feet, drawing the heel of her boot against the planks. She'd never heard either Geralt or Yennefer speak of the island before and she'd been too afraid to ask. Wherever the Wild Hunt landed, there was little chance that the grass would grow again or that any life remained there to see the frost pass. When she'd learned what had befallen their island, she did not hold much hope that she'd see Geralt or Yennefer again and despair still held her when she knew their fate. Did they realise how lucky they'd been? Avallac'h was certain in his belief that, even if they'd not perished on the island, neither would survive captivity for long. She'd wept for many nights beneath laden grief._

 _"Don't ever think like that, Ciri, I won't have it. Do you understand? Never, child, never." A moment passed before she realized what Yennefer was warning her against. Fingers wrapped around the ship's side, the Sorceress had been observing her careful and when Ciri saw her eyes the image of an open book was brought to mind and she began to feel uncomfortably exposed under her scrutiny. Ciri opened her mouth, closed it and nodded. Yennefer sighed and peeled her fingers away from their perch, resting them on the young woman's back and pulling her forwards. "Forget about the island Ciri. I'd have willingly let it go if I'd known it would give Geralt and I the chance to see you again. Treat this as our second chance, child, if we end things now there will never come another reason for us to live our lives apart."_

 _The authority with which she spoke left no room for doubt in Ciri's mind. Whether or not there was truth in Yennefer's words could not yet be witnessed or proven false, but her conviction needed no further proof. Her belief provided all the comfort she needed._

 _"Yes, Mother."_

 _When the smile adorned Yennefer's face anew, Ciri could see thin lines drawn in the corner of her eyes, edges of her lip reaching up to them. She laughed to think how once the Sorceress' face had appeared to her like stone, cold and unscratched._

 _Geralt had stood close by as they spoke, watching them with equal measure. Over his shoulder, Ciri could see that some of the crew were still casting glances at them, at times whispering in each other's ears behind raised hands. She would have thought that seasoned travellers, as they had presented themselves to be, would not have been disused to peculiar sights and people, such as those which had commandeered their ship. Though, not all among them were queer or discomforting to behold. Ciri supposed she had an inclination as to what words they might be exchanging, and the look on the Witcher's face roughly confirmed her suspicions._

 _Yennefer tittered. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Geralt. In fact, its rather unflattering, and I prefer you'd not squander your good looks or else you might truly end up with something to be jealous about. I've always been 'fascinated'," she said satirically, "by lice-ridden, unshaven, cocksure sailors, after all." Ciri laughed as she pictured Yennefer in the arms of the ship's captain, a particularly hideous and unkempt man even as far as sailors went, his shirt covered with so many stains it looked to have been made from patches of different cloth._

 _The Witcher, on the other hand, didn't display any signs of amusement, rather the opposite. "Not funny, Yen," he rebuked, gesturing with his hand, unfolding and folding his arms._

 _"Why ever not, Geralt? Or do you not realize how ridiculous you're being?"_

 _Ciri leant back against the side of the ship. One leg tucked slightly beneath her, she waited to see what would happen next, content to act only as a witness. However this might play out, she was sure it would be entertaining. There was a slight pause, the pair watching each other intently.  
_

 _"Have my reasons," said Geralt, half shrugging. His swords gently clattered as he fidgeted, the wolf heads at their ends gleaming unnaturally bright.  
_

 _Yennefer cocked her head and spoke slowly and softly in reply. "Hmmm, of course you do."  
_

 _The Witcher grunted but didn't reply straight away. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering between her, Yennefer and the deck. Though it was clear something was on the tip of his tongue, Yennefer didn't urge him to speak, somewhat to Ciri's surprise, and waited with an uncustomary level of tolerance.  
_

 _"Caught one of them looking into our room last night after I'd gone out for a piss," he said, wrinkling his nose, "and that wasn't all he was doing there."  
_

 _Ciri felt a little sick; suddenly, the thought of Yennefer and the captain wasn't all that laughable. Though the news came as no surprise, that didn't make it any less revolting, or any easier to stomach. If truth be told, the normality of the incident was what made her stomach turn the most. One of the few things she'd not missed about home._

 _While Ciri shared in Geralt's disgust, Yennefer showed no reaction. "Yes, I'm aware of our...visitor," she stated with relative calm.  
_

 _"You are?" Geralt exclaimed.  
"Yes, Geralt. Otherwise what would be the point of my saying I did," she goaded, tossing her hair, the sun reflecting off her locks as it did the ocean. The Witcher scuffed his feet but looked mildly annoyed, Yennefer continued as though she'd not noticed. "Just what did you two imagine they were talking about, I wonder. About me? How I was sprawled half-naked across the floor, exposed, ready and waiting for his eyes to grope me. I think not. Do either of you really believe I'd sleep aboard a ship full of raunchy and egotistical men who've spent years, alone, upon the ocean while never touching a drop of water, without precautions? I enchanted our and Ciri's door. If there's one thing I've learnt while staying with you Witchers, it's how perverted men can be. So you needn't worry about him, Geralt. I'm sure he'll think twice before spying on a sleeping lady."_

 _Yennefer was right and Ciri supposed it should come as no surprise that the Sorceress had been wary of unwanted attention, as much (if not more) towards Ciri as towards herself, and taken steps to dissuade curious and entrenching glances. Her statement that she had done so looked to have eased the Witcher, despite the tone and fashion in which the news was delivered._

 _"Ow, Yen. You gotta make it so personal?" he said._

 _"The truth can hurt, Geralt, but that's hardly my fault," she replied promptly. Geralt chuckled, shaking his head gently and looking fondly at the Sorceress, who stood proudly half a foot below the top of the Witcher's head._

 _"What can I say, you just bring out the worst in me." Ciri scrunched up her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She wished she didn't know what Geralt was referring to, but she did and tried not to think about it. She wasn't sure whether they simply didn't care about the images they were conjuring in her mind or if they insisted in believing that she was still ignorant to what they were saying, Ciri couldn't decide. Either way, she thought they should know better and admitted to herself that they probably did._

 _Yennefer raised an eyebrow at the Witcher, the rest of her face remaining expressionless, as far as Ciri could tell. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" she asked, her voice and words honeyed._

 _Unwisely, in her opinion, Geralt didn't answer. "I love you, Yen," he responded._

 _The Sorceress raised her chin and planted her hands on her hips, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, hips swaying. Without intending to, Ciri looked past the odd couple standing before her and found more eyes upon them. She knew that there was little privacy to be had on a ship, but it still aggravated her. The wind provided some comfort to Ciri, at least, as it whistled in her ear and carried their conversation over the water._

 _"Don't change the subject, Witcher. I warn you, you shan't talk your way out of this," Yennefer stated, an accusing finger accompanying her raised voice.  
Geralt held his hands up, palm towards the Sorceress. "I'm not trying to-"_

 _"Yes, Geralt, you are," she interrupted. "And if you're trying to buy yourself time to come up with something droll or endearing to say, don't. We'll have landed long before then." Yennefer looked to be angry, but to those that knew her well, there were several subtle hints that betrayed her. Ciri could see the corner of her lip twitching as she tried to keep straight-faced, eyes not narrowed but lidded, hiding the light in them.  
_

 _"Yen...you look ravishing when you're being mean." Ciri rolled her eyes, though there was no one to see. Geralt certainly had a way with flattery, not inherently a good way or a bad way, just a way. She didn't know quite how to describe it but was aware that it worked because Yennefer, begrudgingly, let slip a smile and his charm needn't work on anyone else._

 _"You're an arse, Geralt!" She shot, taking a step towards him. Their toes were almost touching they were so close, likely unable to see nought but the person before them, and Yennefer had to tilt her head back to look the Witcher in the eye._

 _At first, he said nothing but glanced briefly over his shoulder to where several men were mopping the deck, which was already glistening in the morning light. When he turned back, Ciri saw his grin widen as he peered down at the Sorceress. "Maybe...but at least I'm not a sailor."_

 _Yennefer hummed. "Mmmmm, true... I suppose that makes you the most eligible man around. That's a first."_

 _"Perhaps I should make the most of it, then." Ciri saw him edge closer to the Sorceress, hooking his fingers around her slender waist as he closed the already small space left between them. Her hands trapped in the middle, Yennefer reached up and wrapped her fingers around the chain of his medallion, the wolf's head shuddering._

 _"Maybe you should," she purred, tugging at the metal around his neck.  
_

 _Ciri watched them, for the moment forgotten, thinking how at ease they looked and hoping it would last while knowing that it could not. The sight of land would promise to bring forth all worries lost upon the water and soon they would be plunged into a battle from which none of them might return. If Ciri could have her way, she'd take them back to paradise and let them have no part in this. But there was no hope that either would leave her, or the other, and that, even if they did, their safety could be ensured.  
_

 _Deeply entangled as they were, Ciri thought best to leave them be. It was getting just that little bit awkward anyhow; it seemed she might not be all that mature after all. She hugged the side of the boat as she walked past, running her hand along the planks of wood, all of which were surprisingly smooth, other than a few holes and scratches oddly dotted about.  
_

 _"Where do you think you're going?"  
_

 _Yennefer was still caught up in the Witcher's arms when Ciri turned to face her, perfectly fit beneath his stubbled chin. Geralt was watching her also, but his eyes kept moving past her and he looked to be very pleased with himself. She refrained from rolling her eyes at his childish expression, believing that it was for the best that Yennefer could not see the look he was giving over her head, literally, in fact. It would probably have ruined the moment.  
_

 _"To see Avallac'h, there's something I need to discuss with him. And yes, it could wait," she admitted, "but I think you two need some time together. You've spent a long while chasing after me, please, take this moment."  
_

 _"Thanks, Ciri," Geralt replied.  
_

 _Yennefer stayed silent, watching her with heavy eyes for a stint, as she had before. She had her arms around her, as though warding off the cold in the wind, only, Geralt was wrapped around her. She shouldn't have shivered as she did.  
_

 _Ciri wasn't kept for long. She thought she saw Geralt brush his lips against Yennefer's ear and for a spell her eye went dull and misty until the Witcher squeezed her shoulder. "Very well," she said, head inclined, "but if you may, be quick about it. Give your Mother a chance to talk with you a while, it's not fair that he should keep your company for too long."  
_

 _"I shall be, I promise."  
_

 _The deck squeaked under the soles of her shoes as she walked carefully amongst the sailors and their mops. She had her hand on the door which lead to the lower deck when something caught her eye. Turning her head she glimpsed a flash of red or brown, she wasn't certain which, through a small window which looked out from the captain's cabin. Her better judgement told her to leave it be, but as usual, her instincts won her over and Ciri moved towards the other door.  
_

 _Something hot pricked her feet and a rush of warmth raced from her toes to the tip of her ears, dissipating almost as soon as it had come. Her hand, which was still grasping the handle to the captain's cabin, tingled and the hairs of her right arm were erect. Ciri almost let go of the door, wishing to shake off the feeling that something was crawling up her back, but the thought of having to re-experience whatever rush of magic that just was kept her hand still. Before she could change her mind, Ciri quickly turned the handle and swung the door open.  
_

 _The interior was decorated about as well as most roadside taverns, which left it of remarkable quality compared to what lay behind the second door. There was a double bed at the back of the room which took up almost a third of the space and the little room which was left had been dedicated to a desk under the window through which she'd looked, and a locked closet screwed to the wall. Philippa Eilhart was reclined in a rather luxurious wooden chair at the far end, one that most definitely didn't belong to the captain. Beside her was Margarita Laux-Antille, sitting upon the bed with a bundle of bloody bandages piled nearby on the floor. None of this, however, Ciri saw.  
_

 _Standing in the doorway, she peered around the corner where her eyes fell upon the old desk and the woman standing by the window. Triss was leaning against the wooden top, palms spread upon several scattered pieces of parchment, an ink pot and feathered quill near at hand. Her mouth was slightly ajar but was hastily snapped shut. As Ciri eyed the Sorceress' face, something strange overtook her and words dropped unbidden from her lips.  
_

 _"Leave them be, Triss. For once, leave them be."  
_

 _Ciri slammed the door behind her._

* * *

Not another glimpse of life did Ciri spy until near on an hour had passed. The cover of the trees ended abruptly, stones set back from the path which cut up into the mountain. A little above her head, several metres up, Geralt was sat upon a ledge staring out into the mist. Spotting her, the Witcher drew his legs back over the side and started climbing down to meet her. For a moment, they stood opposite one another, eyes uncertainly flickering back and forth, between a face and the barren mountain. It was Geralt who held his gaze for the longest, eyes piercingly bright in his face which looked drained of colour.

By his side, he kept clenching and unclenching his hand and his arm was twitching. She could see a smattering of red upon his knuckles. Ciri didn't ask, she didn't want to know, and it probably wouldn't have helped because there was nothing to say. Instead, she hugged him and the Witcher pulled her close against his chest. He didn't seem like a stranger anymore, and Ciri realised how much she'd missed him and how much she regretted all she'd said and done on the path to the mountain. She wanted to apologize but could no longer recall what it was she was sorry for, only that she was sorry for it. When they pulled apart, she knew he felt the same, or near enough to it, and she felt better for seeing it.

Together they walked back up to the ledge, climbing the steps cut from the mountain. Ciri was surprised at how smooth and even they were, expertly crafted like the marble steps in Vizima. She wondered just what they were doing here, thinking of how unnecessary they were upon a desolate rock as this place appeared to be. It made her uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't put into words.

Now upon the ledge, from which she'd first spied Geralt, Ciri saw two figures awaiting them. Dandelion, who sat with his back against the mountain, briefly looked in her direction as she walked past and Ciri halted by his feet. His knees were drawn close to his chest, his eyes were bloodshot and his face streaked. On the stones where he sat, there was a stain. It looked to be a watermark, though Ciri had seen no signs of a pool or river or of rain here. She looked sideways at the Witcher who shrugged and shook his head. What had happened since he'd spoken to her, Ciri couldn't guess, and it was clear no answer would come from Dandelion. Whatever it was it had taken the Bard's tongue, and that scared her.

Ciri turned her attention now to the second person who was sitting upon the steps which lead further up the mountain. It was Triss.  
"Where's Philippa?" Ciri asked, looking at the Sorceress. Triss, who'd been staring ahead, snapped her head to the side and stared at Ciri with wide eyes. "Where's Philippa," she repeated.

Triss looked at her, blinking several times as though awoken abruptly from a dream. She had beautiful eyes, Ciri thought, though she disliked that little ever changed about them; not like Yennefer's did. They were large and clear, giving her the facade of childish ignorance, one that was profoundly true. Triss was learned, more so than Ciri, yet between them she was less experienced and in a sense, less mature. She'd never understood how the woman had ended up a Sorceress, especially one who dabbled in politics and matters of magic, of life and of state. If she'd only seen half of what Ciri had been through, it would much change her, she believed.

"I'm not sure. I haven't seen her since she went into the mist after you, Ciri," Triss replied after a short while.

The sense of uneasiness that had settled within Ciri upon reaching the mountain stirred and quivered. This was all very wrong, inexplicably so. How could Philippa have missed Triss when she herself was spotted? It stands to reason that the Sorceress must have been closer to the mountain path than she and yet been undetected and thought lost. Ciri looked skywards, hoping to find the solution there, but though she could see for miles all was still. Aware that the others were watching her, Ciri relayed her encounter with the owl in the forest and of the conversation they'd had. She saw her own confusion and concern mirrored in their faces.

After a brief discussion, it was decided that they would wait for a spell upon the ledge to see if Philippa would return, and they did just that. Not even Geralt caught any sign of her. Ciri didn't want to leave without the Sorceress but decided, uneasily, that it would be best to obey her command and not tally at the foot of the mountain. Though no one was willing to say it aloud, the same thought rang in their heads. If they were to leave now, it was improbable that they'd meet with Philippa again.

* * *

Even as she circled around the island for the third time, Philippa was still far from convinced that Triss was worth all this effort. For one, it was uncomfortable. Her skin was hot and itchy and she could feel that feathers pricking at her flesh. It wasn't that the form was particularly painful, there'd be no point in learning this magic if it were so, but it was exceedingly uncomfortable. She also disliked spending extended periods of time in animal form. Ever since the business with the dimeritium shackle, Philippa had never been at ease while transformed and the thought of once again being treated like a mindless animal - as a pet - filled her with enough rage to forget her humiliation. At least, it normally did.

When Yennefer had learnt what happened, and proceeded to let her in on that fact, there had only been shame. She'd laughed right in her face, daring to mock her as no one else would. Philippa had waved it off, of course, making some defensive or sardonic remark that she couldn't recall only remembering that she'd made Yennefer angry. Philippa didn't see her for almost a day after that, and when Yennefer came back, she was more vexed than before. She'd rescued Rita that night, her and her Witcher, and Philippa helped her tend to the woman, though there was little she could do but heal and bandage her. Her fellow sister of the Lodge uttered no words as she was treated, right up until Yennefer had made to leave.

She was halfway through the door when Rita stopped her dead in her tracks. _How_ , she asked, _how had Yennefer done it. How had she survived Vilgefortz and Stygga castle almost unchanged, what had kept her together?_ Rita begged to know. Yennefer had not answered at first, nor did she move from the doorway, lost in thought as Philippa believed she was. Rita had begun to sink back into bed when an answer she was given. _Not a what, Rita,_ Yennefer had murmured, _but a who. Two, in fact._ Back in Corvo Bianco, in the real world, their world, she'd seen Yennefer's words realised in practice and presently she wondered if Yennefer had ever thought of her in this place.

By now, Philippa had almost finished going around the island and was resigned to the fact that Triss was probably lost in the mist, if not beyond it. Though it wasn't good news, the Sorceress did not feel any real sense of loss. It was true that she would have preferred to find the woman, if only to have another magician along for the journey, but things might work out better this way. They hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms, Yennefer and Triss, and the latter's skills might be of more use in Corvo Bianco.

When she'd completed the loop, Philippa descended into the forest and rested for a while, as a human, beneath their branches. Not long after she'd made herself comfortable, lying upon a fallen trunk, Philippa was disturbed. She lay still and flat against the stone, listening. After a few seconds, she took off deeper into the forest. Someone was singing, and she needed to know who.

* * *

Rick Yancey - The 5th Wave: Chapter 22, Death's Statues  
"We'd stared into the face of Death, and Death blinked first. You'd think that would make us feel brave and invincible. It didn't."

* * *

I mean, technically its been over a month since the last update. But...its still within the next month so...I'm counting this as a victory. Also, it's another looooooong one. Almost 6k again...yikes. Anyhow, I digress. Hope you enjoyed this latest update and the fluff. If you did (or even if your didn't) please consider leaving a comment, that would be wonderful! :D

PS: I've been listening to more Lord of the Rings... Can you tell?!


	22. Death's Statues

**Warning** : This chapter contains brief mentions of rape that some readers might find distressing

 **Warning** : This chapter contains mild descriptions of the death of a baby that some readers might find distressing

* * *

Rick Yancey - The 5th Wave: **Chapter 22, Death's Statues** **  
**"We'd stared into the face of Death, and Death blinked first. You'd think that would make us feel brave and invincible. It didn't."

* * *

Geralt wasn't thrilled at the prospect of more walking. It wasn't the effort in itself that troubled him, but rather the time it was occupying. It felt like they'd been there for years already without even reaching the front gate, all of which was more time for O'Dimm to make Yennefer suffer and for him to plot against them. Worst of all, it gave Geralt too much time to think, and he'd been avoiding just that since the day she'd been taken from him.

For the moment, his mind had turned to all that O'Dimm had told him when last they'd in the light of open flames. His words burdened Geralt and he felt as though the devil's smile grew with each passing second he pondered over the deal, but he could not turn his mind from it. She really had looked peaceful, a mind freed from a broken body. When he'd touched her, holding for the first time since she died, Geralt had been afraid. Afraid of hurting her. She was so frail and damaged, her arm still raw and her hands bloodied and tattered.

It was something he'd always worried about, that he might get lost in the throes of passion or lash out while sleep addled him; that he might rend her heart open beyond repair. Witchers weren't made to love or to hold the life of another close to their chest. Not like he had, and look at what had become of it. This wasn't how fairy tales were told, and Witcher's didn't get happy endings. What took their place, Geralt didn't know, but the life he'd pictured with Yennefer was never going to come back, not even if she did. And it was for the best.

The Witcher stopped and waited. Lost in his thoughts, he'd left the others a little way behind. He was aware that it would not serve them well to part company as tempting as it was, for time's sake, to be done with all this wandering. He was glad, at least, that the path had changed. While it was still long and arduous, Geralt felt as though he were making progress with each step. He could make out no distinct shapes in the forest anymore, seeing only a mass of grey, and the clouds were drawing closer. The path on which they trod, which switched between steps and an incline as it pleased, had wrapped itself around the mountain. Seep but far from unclimbable.

At times the path would rise drastically and they'd have to rest both before and after the ascent, mostly for Dandelion and Triss' sake, though his knees were also becoming pained. For many years, the injury he'd sustained at Thanedd, courtesy of Vilgefortz, had not bothered him, but presently it was beginning to ache dully. Though he did not let on to the others, it was of great concern to him. They were moving slow enough as it was without this injury to hinder him.

His worry would have been alleviated, perhaps, if he could judge how much further they had to go, but the top of the mountain was shrouded in mist. For all he knew, no peak might exist. That this might just be another pointless march, the purpose of which was only to waste yet more time. Geralt was steeling himself for the worst. It was hard not to, for doom and dismay were all he had to occupy him.

The Witcher kept walking and climbing, and stopping and waiting, the path winding on. It looked to be well-travelled, to his eyes at least, and little debris covered it. He was surprised, then, when something hard pressed against his heel. There was a crack followed by what he presumed to be a rush of air. Geralt's body went cold and stiff. Something white and luminous rose before him, flittering in front of his face. It was a bird, a swallow he thought, one devoid of any substance but the light from which its form was sculpted. A spectre or perhaps, another soul, if a difference there was.

For a brief second, he beheld it closely, the bird dancing within arms reach until it plunged down the mountain tiny wings fluttering. Drawing his eyes away, Geralt lifted up his boot and saw several pieces of rock beneath his heel. One looked to be a carving of a beak, astonishingly lifelike and perfect in size. He picked it up, holding it between two extended fingers.

"What was that?" He turned to Ciri, who was standing close beside him, and handed her the rock by way of answer.

"Not too sure. Would guess it was a spirit or a soul, but in here I can't say for certain what it was, only that it came from that rock."

Ciri held it at eye level, rotating it between her fingers and giving the impression that she thought the stone might reveal its secrets to her. It did not tell, however, and Ciri gave it back to the Witcher who, without reason, tucked it into one of his small pouches. It was promptly forgotten about.

"Could there be more?"

"Maybe."

Geralt knelt down, pressing one knee against the slope and dipping his head. Starting from the tip of his boot, the Witcher's eyes carefully moved up the path, letting not details go amiss. Within ten metres of where they'd stopped, his question had been answered and there was plenty of evidence behind it. He walked forwards several paces and picked up another statue.

It was not a bird, but a lizard, one no longer than his palm. It had a triangular head and a large, bulging tail that made up half of its length. Geralt held it flat in his palm and closed his fingers around it, feeling the rock crack beneath his grasp. He heard the sound again, of wind whistling in his ears, though he could not feel its breath against his skin. His hand was chilled and numb and when he unclenched his fingers, he saw that frost covered them and his palm. But that was not all he saw. The lizard licked an icy crystal from one of its watery eyes and coiled around itself, nestling in his palm. He felt nothing as it rubbed its heads against his skin, but saw his hand paling through its ghostly body.

The others gathered around him when he gestured for them to approach. Dandelion looked the most bewildered, though Geralt suspected it was most likely because he'd never seen a lizard up close before, rather than anything else. Triss, meanwhile, held her hand above the creatures head, palm turned towards it. The Witcher's medallion hummed but was quick to still. The lizard was not as easily calmed, however, and jumped from his hand, scuttering away.

"Learn anything?" Geralt asked.

"Not at all, I merely have more questions now."

The Sorceress tugged at her earlobe, staring after the lizard. It was plainly visible over the side of the mountain, clinging to its grey side like a crystal embedded in the stone. It was pleasing to look at, and yet a sadness grew inside of him the longer he stared and it lingered for a while after he closed his eyes.

"What did you do?" asked Dandelion.

"A simple spell, to check whether or not it was alive."

"And?"

"And nothing. Somehow, it's neither."

Her words, though simple, unnerved Geralt. Banshies, Noonwraiths, Hyms, they were all dead. There was no heart to crush or drain within their chest; no lung to puncture and starve. They did not live but existed, with no need for water, food or shelter to drive them. They all had their place in the bestiary, alongside the living. But there were no pages dedicated to what he'd witnessed. No words in memory of the nothingness.

And yet, here they were, standing upon a mountain. Geralt did not need Triss to tell him that. How long had they walked without true sleep or nourishment? Without joy or laughter? They needed it not, and yet his body and his sanity cried for it, desiring that which the living enjoyed. He did not share his thoughts with the others. If they had not guessed it by now, they were in denial and he would not wrench them from it. All he wanted from them, was to keep walking. And to watch where they stepped.

That, however, was easier said than done. The further they climbed the more frequent the petrified forms became, and they were growing in size. Lizards to cats, to wolves, to horses, the path was getting crowded and it was slowing them down. Geralt's frustration kept growing as he was forced to duck and crawl under the statues and to figure out how to navigate through the maze of bodies. But he had to bare it because he wasn't willing to smash his way up the mountain. The climb was dreary and depressing enough as it was without the wailing and crying of animal souls to accompany them.

For Geralt, it was reason enough to slow his pace. Though there was another cause to be cautious here, one that he did not yet know. Almost two hours passed before he discovered it and Triss was the first to learn.

Behind him, she screamed, the sound ringing tenfold in his sensitive ears. He held his silver sword aloft, releasing it from its leather bindings as he spun around. But the Witcher did not see any danger or anything that was cause for alarm. Everything was as it should be, apart from the pile of rubble which stood where once a deer had been.

The Sorceress was staring at the scattered pieces of rock, the white of her eyes revealed. She'd backed up into the side of the mountain, legs angled forwards, pushing her against it. Geralt could see her trembling all over, lips quivering as her mouth hung ajar. Ciri warily stepped closer to her, whispering her name several times and never receiving a response until she placed a hand on Triss' shoulder. Shrieking, Triss jumped back, stumbling. Geralt caught her arm and steadied her. She tried to pull away but he didn't let her, partly out of fear she might topple over the edge in panic. He kept calling her name, holding her shoulders and shaking her until she fell against his chest and sobbed.

"Triss, what happened?" asked the Witcher, when her cries began to subside. Gently, but firmly, he pushed her back, forcing her off his chest and out of his arms. He didn't want her lingering there. Someone could be watching, and even if they weren't well, her closeness still made him uncomfortable all the same.

She nodded at him and, patting down her trousers, produced a small handkerchief from a concealed pocket. They waited, Ciri and Dandelion sitting nearby, as Triss dabbed at her eyes and blotchy cheeks with the thin piece of fabric, pointlessly embroiled and decorated, or so Geralt thought. It was from Toussaint, he could tell by the style of the thread. Every Lady there carried one, often having it in hand without the need to use it. Yennefer had never caught on to the trend, treating it with as much disdain as she did their oversized dresses and theatrical, gaudy colours. It pleased Geralt, he didn't much like the local fashion either, though it wasn't the worst he'd come across, his first trip to Thanedd had yet to be beaten.

With undue care, Triss folded the handkerchief, busying her hands as she replied. "I saw it die. The deer, Geralt, I... It was like I was there, that I was that poor creature. I felt the arrow in my side, saw the blood on my fur and...and watched the hunter as he slit my throat."

Several tears fell anew from her eyes and she opened up her handkerchief again. Dandelion tried to question her, but she would not speak further and, ignoring him, knelt beside the fallen animal. Geralt watched on as she made a small pile from its broken pieces before they took to the path again, even slower than before.

Geralt wondered if any of the monster's he'd ever slain littered the path up the mountain. The statues would be numerous, though far outnumbered by the many men whose blood he'd spilt. He would have grieved less to see the men. A Witcher sorrowful for the creatures he'd killed, coin pursue hardly full yet heavy as it hung from his belt, it was a funny thought and one he'd never shared. He felt no mercy for the death of a man whose hands were bloodied with children's blood, or whose seed had forcible been spread amongst the conquered, as was the victor's privilege. No one mourned evil's death, and as for evil within a monster's heart, rarely did it exist. Thus, he grieved at times for their passing, though it seldom stayed his hand. Especially of late. His swords had often tasted blood since Yennefer had been taken. It was the only thing of any meaning he'd had left. And it could still be.

Several hours passed and the clouds surrounding the mountain flew only a couple hundred metres above their heads. They'd shortly become engulfed by them, and while Geralt was not eager to see what might be hidden there, he still wished to meet them quickly. It seemed, too, that his desire would sooner be granted than he thought. The stone creatures were thinning out and, passing a giant centipede, he found the path clear and it remained so until they stepped into the clouds.

Geralt could see a few feet around him and, wary of traps, scouted ahead. There was no good news to tell upon his return. More statues were ahead and they were creatures no longer. He'd spotted the baby first, lying bare on the ground with a cord around its neck. He wanted to think it was better off this way, because what sort of life would the child have had in a world cruel enough to take the life of a babe. The scars such an upbringing had left on Yennefer were plain to see. How much worse would they be after being here? He couldn't yet worry about it.

Humans, elves, dwarfs, half-lings and higher vampires stood in stone up the rest of the mountain, carved in all shapes and sizes. Each bore a face chiselled with pain and sorrow. Their final breath of life captured and immortalised, and placed in the Devil's garden. Perhaps Yennefer was here, or perhaps not. This seemed too kind a fate for O'Dimm's souls and, from all that he'd glimpsed in his nightmares, this was merely the outskirts of his domain.

The Witcher turned back and told the others of what he'd seen. Their faces paled and they, feeling faint, sat for a while outside the cloud. Only once Triss had conjured up a sphere to keep the cloud away, and to give them more space to see and a better chance at avoiding the statues, could they bring themselves to keep moving. They were forced to huddle close together, needing to conserve Triss' energy as the length of the path that remained was not known.

The faces they passed were all nameless, though in many cases their stories were clear. Scoia'tael dead by the noose. An old man adorned in gems, with a butcher's knife in his back. A young woman curled up on the floor, clutching her abdomen as it bled. A Witcher, Griffin school, with nothing but a severed stump upon his shoulders. Each one, a tale of death brought untimely.

The path was beginning to turn more sharply and the loops they did around the mountain were getting shorter. Geralt could see that the cloud was thinning and that light was close above their heads. They were near and yet, on their last legs, they stumbled.

* * *

He was dazed and confused, peering at his father's face with sleep still in his eyes. Hurridly the old man spoke to him, the flow of his voice interpreted by the constant turn of his head as he kept glancing at the door. His knuckles were ashen as he gripped the rough staff of a spear, flames dancing on its jagged tip, though their lamp was not lit. There was a lot of light coming through the small window in the cabin, he noticed, and it scared him almost as much as the haunted look painted upon his father's face.

Ushered by his command, the boy grabbed the small leather bag from under the bed and fastened it around him as he climbed upon the table by the window. Hands upon the walls of their cabin, he saw that night sky cast in red and orange. Flames were licking the wooden planks of the house beside them and, somewhere inside, harrowing sounds could be heard that the boy could not name, which was lucky, for sanity's sake.

He didn't want to get closer to them and his legs and arms went stiff as he huddled half in the window. His father was shouting at him now, reaching out a worn hand to him. It was then that the door burst open, a man all in black stepping, uninvited, into their home. With a winged helmet sat upon his head, he looked to be death's messenger, red ink splashed across his face. With dead, cold eyes he glanced at the boy and then his father. The spear was readied in the old man's hands and the pair locked eyes while an age passed. A flurry of movement struck dead their brooding as the messenger acted on death's behalf. His father's screams echoed inside his head, which was dark and empty, as he fell, or was pulled, through the window.

People were scampering all over the village as their homes and their crops were swallowed up by the devil's hot flames. From the blackness, more messengers appeared, sweeping through the village like a plague. Armour forged from the night, they decorated their suits with red from the fallen and praised the flames which danced over the dead piled in the town square. His father was being brought to them, entrails spilling onto the floor like a butchered pig.

The boy began to cry and when the messenger saw him, he did not run but cried some more. It was holding his father's spear. They used it to catch fish in the river during the warmer seasons. It was long and tiring work, and a waste of time that could be spent in the fields, but he loved fish. Just like his father had. Far better than a dead pig, he'd say.

The man in the winged helmet looked down at him and dug the tip of the spear into his chest. The boy fell onto the ground like a doll. He thought about the river and the fish waiting for him and closed his eyes.

* * *

Ciri helped to hold him upright when Geralt couldn't find strength enough to stand. He dropped his head in his hands and sat down, not moving for some time. Triss closed the circle, letting the cloud close in around them as they waited in silence. It helped to hide all but the closet of statues, but did not remove the thought of them from Ciri's mind. Parts were still discernible, their memory lingering - haunting.

As they continued up the mountain, Geralt spoke quietly about what he'd seen. He told of how he'd thought himself to be the boy, that he could feel all he did and knew of his name and of his life and dreams. In the second that his eyes had been blank and glazed, the Witcher had lived another lifetime which, in the same instance, had been wrenched from him. When he trailed off, leaving many things unspoken of, Ciri let the matters rest in peace and silence.

The only other thing Geralt would ever tell of the boy was his name, and it was more than they ever learned about Dandelion's alternate life. They never raised the subject and hadn't the chance to ask him when Geralt had finished. It had been too much. When he'd tripped and fallen among the dead, he'd vanished before touching the ground. Dandelion had gone.

* * *

J.K. Rowling - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: **Chapter 23, Into the Deep**  
"It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."

* * *

Okay, admittedly I feel a little as though I'm cutting corners here. I hope it doesn't take too much from the story but I'm trying to keep things moving and not get lost in crushing detail. Tell me what you think; I don't want people feeling as though the story is lacking in places so if I'm leaving things of import out let me know.

On another note…fancy making my Christmas? How about a leaving little comment (or a long one) telling me what you think about this story. The perfect gift; minimal effort, maximum effect! :D

Love you all, have a happy new year. See you on the other side Xxx


	23. Into the Deep

J.K. Rowling - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: **Chapter 23, Into the Deep**

"It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more."

* * *

The loss of one of their companions (and the first and only one whom they knew for certain had gone) took a while to register with Triss, for it had been so sudden and unexpected. He was there one moment, hand upon the shoulders of a statue (details of which she could not recall) as he stumbled forwards and, as it smashed, he'd simply vanished.

They'd begun to walk again when a few tears slipped from her eyes and rolled down her chin as her hands were preoccupied with a spell. Though she'd tried not to think upon it, the nights she'd spent in Corvo Bianco leading up to the crossing had been troubled with thoughts and images of the unfortunate ends she might be forced to face or to witness. The way that Dandelion had left them wasn't at all what she had imagined; gone in the blink of an eye with no chance to fight or to flee. Triss was beginning to think herself unlucky for not finding her nightmares here, as they were cheery in comparison to all that they'd seen and done thus far.

Geralt had smashed a statue too, right before the Bard withdrew his soul. He must have seen all that was about to transpire, for his hands were almost upon Dandelion before he fell upon the stone and fled. Triss wished he'd not reacted at all, cursing that his sharp instincts could not, at that moment, have been temporarily dulled. If he could not act to save the man, it would have been better for him not to act at all and, even if he could have been saved, she did not wish it to come at the cost of a statue, for reasons purely selfish in nature. The look Triss had seen upon Geralt's face when his eyes had turned from glazed to clear and wide, was one she knew but which she had never seen nor thought she would see him bare. It had shaken her painfully and instilled in her more fear and dismay than Dandelion's passing.

Just what that look was, one could not clearly describe. Firstly, because it was traumatic to bring - even for the briefest of moments - to mind, and because there were no words in any language under the sun by which to speak of it. Yet, the little that people had to say about it was still too much for most ears and so less than a little is ever spoken of it. Whenever one might have the extreme misfortune of coming across it, however, they need heard a little less than a little - or indeed nothing - to know what it was. None had spoken to Triss about the look she saw in Geralt's face or had worn herself before now, but still, she knew its name and nature. It was a haunted expression and a mark that the eyes of Death cast upon a person's face before it turned aside.

The rest of the way up the mountain, the Sorceress took no chances. She knew, though it brought her shame to admit, that seeing Death would call her journey to an end. Ciri and Geralt must have known it too because neither questioned or opposed her caution. Their irritation at the pace she set was, however, evident. She did the best she could to ignore it. While costing a great deal of her strength, Triss was glad to expend it and to have a task to give her purpose and to draw the attention of her mind. The magic of O'Dimm's realm felt strange to her as she channelled it through her body and into the palm of her hand, and it chilled her more than the wind of Skellige in winter. Using it, she cleared the path before them by levitating the statues a foot above the Witcher's head.

When Triss began to weaken, Ciri helped her to walk and Geralt too, after a time. While she knew his reasons and thought them valid too, Triss was still hurt by his reluctance to be close to her. They did not speak it while she was there, but she knew nevertheless why most people thought she desired to help. The fire had gone out a long time ago and yet her actions were still judged to be caused by its flames. She wouldn't help Yennefer - only him. People were quick to forget that more than the Witcher bound them and that, whatever the other Sorceress might harbour against her, Triss still cared for her. She hoped Yennefer knew that, it was important to her that she did. Though she had little faith that it was.

The toll of magic was heavy upon Triss' body and when the clouds began to thin she was practically being dragged forwards by the others. As invisible hands and hooks lowered the last of Death's statues, the proxies climbed out of the thick shroud that clung to the stone and took their first few steps upon the top of the mountain. Within this moment, two thoughts came to the Sorceress' mind. The first of these was a lamentation as she realised how close Dandelion had been to the next stage of their quest. To know the short distance that lay between them and the rubble of those two statues made the sorrow she felt taste more bitter. Falling within reach of one's goal was often a blow more painful than never taking a step towards it - this, Triss had learnt for herself.

The second thought that caught her attention, while as striking as the first, lingered far longer in the back of her mind. The top of the mountain was all that stood above the cloud (though only by a few metres), the opaque white blanket stretching outwards in all directions. It gave the peak the appearance of an island suspended within an expansive ghostly lake. It was unlike anything Triss had seen before and the memory would not soon leave her, though she did not mind. The picture would have been improved, however, if they were not alone at the top of the world. Climbing the few steps not covered by the cloud, walking towards the slightly curved peak, Triss' heart continued to race even as her exhaustion faltered.

Standing at the mountain top, she could not think of nor see where their path would lead expect back down, which was a mortifying prospect. Perhaps there was another riddle that needed to be solved but if there was, she had no clue as to the question that was being asked, let alone an idea of the answer. If they could not find their path up here, Triss feared she might not be able to take another step. She did not want to look for their answer in any of the places they'd been, to go back and wander the cloud, the mist and the forest knowing already what was there. Not for the first time, and far from the last, Triss felt as hopeless as she had back in Thanedd two years ago.

If not for the fact that her arms were still hooked around Geralt and Ciri's shoulders, Triss would have stopped at the edge of the cloud. Conquering the last few steps seemed utterly pointless, there was nothing here, and she wanted to rest for her magic may be needed on the way down. She did not, however, feel at liberty to argue and kept moving with them as they climbed the last dozen steps. Triss felt sorry for them, pitying their blind determination to find the path upon the mountain that did not exist. It reminded her of the months following Yennefer's death. Of the days and hours both had spent within dusty and cobwebbed libraries, flicking through aged tomes under the light of well-used oil lamps. She had joined them, of course, but did so without an ounce of optimism, just as she did now. But unlike before, their search was not in vain.

At the end of the stairs was a hole. Though to many the word might appear unassuming and even rather dull, there was nothing normal about this hole and, perhaps more unsettling, nothing natural either. It was square in shape - perfectly - sides equal in length down to the last millimetre (though no one would ever think to check) and was wide enough for a man to comfortable stand within. It was as though someone had cut out the core of the mountain, the hole's straight edges diving right down into the stone. There was no end in sight and Geralt couldn't hear one either, as he dropped the head of the bird statue into its depths.

The hole scared Triss. Filled with darkness unending, it was as terrifying as it was intriguing and brought to mind half-forgotten myths and old wives' tales about the door to the back of one's mind. A path to lost and forbidden knowledge that cost a man most of his sanity and all sense of himself. She did not want to look beyond the darkness. Nothing good would come of it. Yet, if called to jump she would and called she was, for there was nowhere else to go but down.

Geralt went first. Triss thought this was wisest, but the decision was not made with ease. Ciri argued against them for quite some time wishing to take his place (believing she could teleport back to them if all was fine) and the debate got rather heated. Besides agreeing with the Witcher at the start, the Sorceress did not contribute. Coming between them felt wrong to her - it was something that only Yennefer ever did, though there was little occasion to do so. Silently, she sat upon the steps until their exchange was calmed and eventually settled.

Standing with his toes to the edge of the hole, Triss watched the Witcher close his eyes, take a deep breath, and then step forward. He was at once lost from sight, swallowed whole by the darkness without leaving the slightest of ripples. Ciri and Triss peered over the edge, waiting, watching and listening while knowing that it was pointless doing so. The passing of two minutes, uninterrupted, signalled Triss' turn to jump. There had been no argument about her second place; she would likely need a push.

Whenever Triss was anxious, she'd have nightmares about falling. She loathed the sensation, the tightness of the chest and the leaping of her heart into her throat. The thought of it could even make her heart race. Standing at the edge of the void, Triss could think of nothing besides the sensation and how long it might last. Jumping down from a ledge or a wall she could handle, because the experience was quick enough that one hadn't the time to register the feeling nor appreciate the fact that they are falling. In dreams, the opposite was true and yet they lasted mere seconds.

How long would this fall be? Triss was determined to know.

* * *

The darkness of the hole swallowed the light of the moon as she let herself be taken by it. It suffocated her screams too, and she fell soundlessly through the void without a rush of wind or her own breaths beside her in the gloom. Seconds turned into minutes and the sensation of falling threatened to choke Triss as her mind raced in desperate circles. She kept wishing for it to end, hoping that the floor would hurry up to meet her regardless of the state it might leave her in.

Over and over in her mind, Triss kept thinking of how wonderful it would be to be able to fly. To turn, at will, into a winged beast who could make the sensation stop with the beating of their wings. She knew of spells that a mage could cast to raise themselves off the ground, but it wasn't the same as what Philippa had. There wasn't as much control or as much freedom. As she fell, the Sorceress promised herself that she would learn to polymorph or create a spell to sprout wings of her own. Anything to send this feeling away for good.

Lost in the darkness, and ensnared with fear, Triss hadn't any inclination of how long she spent going back down the mountain. While no one had control over time quite like Ciri or the Mirrors did, the emotions that rule one's heart had well-known power in that domain. As such, Triss had to bear the sensation for longer than either of the other proxies - fear was cruel that way - and several minutes passed before she saw the light rushing up towards her.

Emerging unannounced and unheralded from the darkness, it blinded her. Triss screwed up her eyes and waited for something, knowing not quite what it would be but certain in her belief that it would be beyond unpleasant. On that account, she was wrong, though not entirely. A coldness cascaded over her, shooting up her legs and spine and making her head dull and achy. So overwhelming it was that Triss did not notice from whence it came until she opened her eyes a short intake of breath later.

She clutched at her throat and choked, not on the sensation, but on the water filling her lungs. The Sorceress had landed in a deep, bottomless pool that made up the heart of the mountain. Illuminated by the lights she's seen and fallen through, Triss could see its rough, grey insides on either side, sharp edges prodding the water and reaching out towards her. But only for a second.

Images of a great stone stage, of yellow eyes and dark clouds, echoed in her mind and swamped the field of her sight. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but wait to drown. Though even that she failed. There was a voice inside her head. It was saying her name softly and with practised ease. It told her that she was safe and that she needed to breathe slowly. As she Listened the voice got louder and she noticed that it wasn't coming from inside her head at all, but that it was still close at hand.

A light started to penetrate the dark water around her until it was gone altogether. She was lying on her back, staring up at the roof of a cave with the end of the dark hole just at the edge of her vision. She could also see Geralt. The voice belonged to him; she should have known that. Why hadn't she noticed before? Triss took several deep breaths and sat up, the Witcher guiding her with care. She brought a hand to her mouth and wiped it. A trail of saliva and water stuck to her skin on the back of her hand and she quickly turned her head to the side so that he couldn't see the mess she was in. It was embarrassing.

He kept his hand on the small of her back as she cleaned her face with a handkerchief, which was soaked through with cold water, as was the rest of her - down to the bone. She looked back up in time to see something drop like a stone from the hole in the mountain, an ashen head surfacing from the small pool soon after. Seeing her rise above the water and swim to the edge of the pool with ease put the Sorceress to shame.

Uncommonly bright torches and brackets blazed with orange flame all around the pool and within the tunnel that led from it. Shivering, Triss moved up to a small plinth with slatted sides by the water, which supported a copper bowl of fire. There was no fuel within it that she could see, only a small red gem buried at the bottom. Speaking an incantation the warmth of the flames intensified and she used it as best she could to dry her hair and clothes. Ciri joined her too but the Witcher did not.

Triss didn't mind though, she didn't even notice. The flames had caught her eye and she watched them contently. She felt warm inside and out and smiled at Ciri with unbridled sincerity and joy. The younger woman returned it in kind, the flash of her teeth and upturning of her lips making her face look more youthful; erasing tired lines and signs of stress and of hardship no woman her age should be baring. She looked like the child Triss had found on the road to Kaer Morhen, a wild but pretty girl full of cheek and spirit.

Not too much had changed about her since those days, except the wisdom and scars born by experience, and she'd had a lot of it - enough for a lifetime. The biggest difference Triss had seen in her when they had travelled to Rivia, and when she had returned home with the Hunt pursuing her, was Ciri's similarity to Yennefer as well as her adoration of the Sorceress. She'd been more than a little surprised (to speak plainly) when first she'd called Yennefer Mother, though she hadn't a right to be. Triss had seen that side of the Sorceress before, but long forgotten it for she had fallen out of favour with her raven-haired friend. Perhaps this would be a new beginning for them.

They'd drink wine together again and laugh freely and often; Yennefer had a wonderful titter. She'd come and visit her at Corvo Bianco. They'd spend hours of the day within her laboratory and hours of the night wandering amongst the hills. Eskel would be there too, soaking his weary bones in the sun. He'd go out hunting with Geralt and they'd always return home, victorious and unscathed. She and Yennefer would make fun of the Witchers and talky idly not because it was interesting, but because they could. Triss would have her friend back again and everything would be set to right. But there was something she needed to do first. What was it again? Surely she'd remember soon. For now, she could just stay by the fire. There was no rush. No rush at all. Nothing bad would happen if she warmed herself for just a little longer.

Ciri was thinking the exact same, though the dreams which filled her head were fashioned after her own desires. They lost sight of each other after a while, and of the cave and fire, but they never stopped looking at it. Only Geralt had eyes for something else, the combination of his mutations, his stubbornness and his blind obsession providing him with adequate protection. Rather than being devoured by the flames, his eyes were drawn towards the water and that fact saved them all.

"Ciri... Triss... Ciri... Listen to me!" The harsh tone of Geralt's voice confused Triss, the words spilling from his smiling mouth. They were sitting across the dining table from one another, Yennefer at his side and Eskel at hers. Geralt had just won the tourney for the fourth year in a row and they were celebrating his victory, and the vow of love that had carried him towards it. Yennefer had her head on the Witcher's shoulder and his arms around her. Warm content shone in her eyes, their glow lighting up her beatific expression. She was looking at Triss, lips moving, but she could not hear the words she spoke.

Her head was heavy and thick with a confusion suddenly placed there. There was something in Geralt's eyes that sent a shiver up her spine and made the smile on her lips falter. What it was she didn't rightly know, only sure that it was out of place. As though a painter had drawn a happy figure with a beautiful smile and soft features, but given them cold, dead eyes that sucked the life from the painting.

"Wake up!" Geralt shouted over the table. "We need to go. Wake up!"

Triss was sure she didn't know what he was talking about. Nothing was the matter; rather the opposite. They were happy... Weren't they? Why would he want to go? What did he want to leave them for? No... He didn't want to leave them all. Geralt wanted her to come. He wanted her. They were going to run away together. She wanted it. No, no she didn't. What about Yennefer? Hadn't her friend been hurt enough? It would be wrong to chase him after she was gone. Gone? Where had Yennefer gone? Not gone - taken. Offered. She'd given herself to someone. Istredd? No. Someone scarier, someone more dangerous. A God, perhaps. God. Gaunter O'Dimm had taken her soul. She was dead. Dead but not lost. They'd been lost, for centuries it felt. Wasted time. More suffering for Yennefer. They were taking too long, they needed to keep going. Why weren't they? Something felt wrong. What was she waiting for?

"Triss!" Geralt was no longer smiling at her. He looked older too, sickly almost.

"Geralt...what-"

"Move! And don't look at the fire!"

The Witcher took a hold of her arm and pulled her after him, down a long and narrow tunnel that ran away from the water. Ciri was standing just within it and her sword was drawn, Geralt's also. At the far end stood a mighty door, the top of its wooden frame reaching up to the stone ceiling, ten or fifteen feet above her head. Triss ran to it with the others, breaking eye contact with the end only when the monster at her back screamed.

The sound burrowed into her skull and left Triss feeling numb and empty. Darkness flooded from the door at the back of her mind, the tide sweeping away enlightening memories like seashells. Cold, weary and despairing, she was overwhelmed by the sudden desire to give in. There was no reason to keep going; she felt she'd never be happy again. Triss stopped running and dropped to her knees. She closed her eyes and the dark sensation dissipated as the door was quickly shut. Triss whimpered, she didn't want to die.

She got up and stumbled forwards a few metres, her body stiff and aching, craving the embrace of fire. The Sorceress was beside Geralt and Ciri within a few short and hurried strides, the two picking themselves and their swords up from the ground before chasing after her. While fear was no replacement for dedicated training, it could still do a damn good job at keeping you alive. Triss would never have been able to run for as long without it.

Thump, squelch, thumb. The sound of fresh meat being slapped against the butcher's block echoed down the tunnel towards them (loud enough to be an entire cow, or maybe two). It seemed likely to put the Sorceress off eating meat for life. As they drew closer to the door at the end of the tunnel, the sound chasing after them grew louder. Triss didn't have a moment to spare for a look, not that she needed it to know that the monster was closing in. She could feel its weighted footsteps crashing against the floor of the cave. It sent shockwaves up her legs and spine and wrapped around her ankles trying to trip her.

Innately, the Sorceress was aware of the panicked thoughts filling the other's heads and concentrated briefly to catch a glimpse of what they were saying. Usually, Triss avoided peering uninvited into one's thoughts. There were many ways in which she did not count herself among most Mages, and this was one of them. To her, thoughts were private property and should be treated with respect and consideration. Besides, rarely did anything good come from gaging one's true intentions and feelings. It was like eavesdropping on a conversation between two people you knew, listening to what they really thought about you. Sometimes, it was nice to hear. Most often you were better off not knowing.

It was into Ciri's mind that she delved; the girl's thoughts less protected than the Witcher's. The connection was flimsy, her concentration uncontrollably - and understandably - divided at present. Scraping the surface of her consciousness, Triss caught a few thoughts as they appeared in Ciri's heads, the connection breaking after just a handful of words. What she did hear confirmed Triss' worst fears - they weren't going to make it. The monster would get to them before they could get to the door and there wasn't anything they could do about it.

Triss knew that Ciri was right, though on the last point they disagreed. It was less a matter of what could be done than of who was willing to do it. They were all experienced combatants after all (even if unwillingly, in the Sorceresses case), not that Triss was suggesting that they could kill it, she wasn't sure it was even possible. Rather, that they could slow it down by staying behind. That's why Triss knew it had to be her. Geralt and Ciri, they'd not stop running until they found her. And she didn't want them to. She told them as much before she took her final stand.

Triss would have given up a lot more to save Yennefer, but death would have to do.

* * *

Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men: **Chapter 24: Song Bird**

"Abuse grows from attitudes and values, not feelings. The roots are ownership, the trunk is entitlement, and the branches are control."

* * *

Hello, welcome back. New month tomorrow means a new chapter too! I plan to keep updating in this way.

Some Triss perspective for a change and - even better - a whole Yennefer chapter to follow (chapter 25). I might not, however, be giving you a new chapter next month. I've finally overcome my writer's block and managed to finalise some details/lore about the Realm of Glass and O'Dimm that are central to the story. Though I'm not changing anything I will be retconning some earlier chapters, going back and adding detail. This, then, might be next months update. If it is I'll say so in these notes on the 28/02, otherwise it will be chapter 24 :)

PS: by death Triss means having to leave Realms - not to literally die. Remember the proxies are souls here and souls can't be destroyed, only wounded.

UPDATE: If you're reading this after the 01/03/2019 then chapter 2 and chapter 4 scene 1 have been updated with new and crucial plot information. 31/03/2019 There will be a new chapter.


	24. Song Bird

Lundy Bancroft, Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men: Chapter 24: Song Bird

"Abuse grows from attitudes and values, not feelings. The roots are ownership, the trunk is entitlement, and the branches are control."

* * *

They were fifth (and last) in line, Geralt and she, waiting their turn behind the excessively decorated doors of the Beauclair Palace ballroom. Two uniformed and blank-faced men were standing on either side of the entrance, allowing people in at regular intervals so that guests weren't overwhelmed by the plethora of names and titles circulating around the room. Currently, they were opening the doors for the young couple at the front of the line and the pair sashayed forwards. Yennefer could just make out their announcement before the room was sealed off. They were fourth now, though still last. The Sorceress was glad, it meant that neither she nor Geralt would be giving any introductions tonight. The Witcher didn't know it, but they held a privileged position in the line. They were the unofficial, though socially recognised, favoured guests of the evening. The ones to watch out for and the people you needed to talk to.

She'd spared Geralt the news, it was information he didn't need to know. Yennefer had struggled to convince him to attend a formal event, she'd been in Toussaint almost two months before getting him to accept one of the invitations he'd been stockpiling. If he'd know the attention they'd be receiving, he never would have come, but she needed it. It was important to her that these southerners knew of her reputation because she didn't want them bringing trouble to her door. It would be better for everyone if they understood what she was capable of and better for them to know sooner rather than later. Especially with all these vampires on their doorstep. She knew Geralt was anxious that he'd made a few enemies by dealing with the Beast of Beauclair. Knowing he had a Sorceress watching over him might make them think twice about pursuing him, or her for that matter (which was what the Witcher appeared to be more concerned with). Yennefer also wanted to make clear that she was no damsel in distress in this fairytale land, rather the opposite. It would be misguided to assume she wanted them to fear her, that wasn't important to her image anymore, she was retired after all. No, she wanted people to be afraid of crossing her.

She watched another couple enter the ballroom, shrinking their line to a Sorceress, a Witcher, two nobles and a widow (who was next in line). Yennefer didn't know who any of them were. She didn't need to know, for a change. This was probably one of the only balls she'd ever attended in an informal capacity, meaning she wasn't there to spy or make pleasant talk with nobles and merchants. She was also a foreigner and was thus excused from knowing the nobility tree, apart from the royal line, which even Geralt (the etiquette untrained) knew he needed to be aware of.

Yennefer watched the Witcher in question as he pulled at his formal outfit, a black and white corset similar to the one he'd worn in Skellige, trying to make it comfortable. As the widow joined the gathering, leaving them and one other pair behind, she turned to her partner and wrapped herself around his arm. He stilled his hands and looked down at her.

"Please do stop pulling at your clothes, Geralt, you're calloused hands are going to damage the embroidery," she cooed.

The Witcher grunted in reply and rolled his shoulders. Then he smiled slyly at her. "My rough hands weren't bothering you last night." He placed a large hand over hers, pressing her palm against his forearm. He slid his thumb under the long, tight sleeve of her dress and dragged it against her arm. Yennefer bit her lip. The friction felt good against her skin and sent a shiver down her spine.

The Sorceress watched as the last of their company disappeared from the hallway, rather hurriedly, she thought. It was quite in here and echoy too. She found it boundlessly amusing how easy it was to make Southerners blush; Geralt has scolded her more than once for saying something brash in front of the workers at Corvo Bianco. But he was just as bad, worse actually.

"No, no, they certainly weren't. So why don't you put them to good use again, Geralt. Stop playing with yourself and hold me, and please try to keep your head out of the gutter." Yennefer gently traced his jawline with a bejewelled finger, his stubble scratching her fingertip. "Save it for later, Witcher."

He caught her hand as she let it drop from his face and placed a tender kiss upon it, his bright eyes lingering on her face. The doors began to swing open and they put aside their intimate thoughts for the next moment alone that they could catch. Arm in arm, they made their way into the ballroom and stood beside the gentleman who would soon announce them to those who comprised Toussaint's uppermost social ranks. Everyone who was worth knowing in the Dutchy would be listening.

"Our final guests of this evening and Her Enlightened Ladyship's special attendants. The honourable Sir Geralt of Rivia, slayer of the beast of Beauclair, the current Knights' tournament of Beauclair Champion and the Master of Corvo Bianco. With him, the enchanting Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, esteemed Sorceress of the north and the Mistress of Corvo Bianco."

They stood for a while before the closed doors, presenting themselves for a time to the curious glances of the other guests, as was customary in this part of the world. It was evident why Dandelion had always taken such a fancy to this region. Here he could parade like a peacock and sing like a thrush to his heart's content without for a moment looking out of place. In the upper circles, Toussaint was one big stage.

Once their turn in the spotlight came to a close, Yennefer expertly guided Geralt across the room, aware that many people were still watching them subtly from behind wine-filled goblets or expensively decorated masks. She couldn't see them staring, the room was bustling with colourfully clad Southerners, but she could hear them in a way. It was easy to glimpse the thoughts of the magically incompetent, requiring little more than a conscious effort in Yennefer's case as their minds offered minimal resistance. She jumped skillfully between different people, lingering only when her or Geralt's presence crossed their thoughts. There are several things she overheard (for lack of a better word to describe it).

Firstly, a number of people were commenting on her attire, which Yennefer didn't for a moment find surprising. She could count on one hand the number of people she'd seen in Toussaint draped in as much black as she and, her colour palette aside, not a single element of the style of her dress could be found upon any of the other ladies. It did not hide her figure, covering it with modesty, but clung to her exaggerating each and every curve she possessed. On her left side, there was a slit that ran from her thighs down to the floor, freeing her legs from the tight material and flashing her stocking when she walked. It was positively scandalous, and she loved that about it.

Secondly, people remarked about her company, or rather the company of the Master Witcher. It would appear that his triumph at the tournament and over the Beast of Beauclair has earned her Geralt a fair amount of renown and notability. Yennefer was pleased by it. As far as she was concerned, it was the reputation he deserved. As such, people were curious to know who rested upon the arm of their new Lionheart, and many among them had clearly heard her name before. Geralt had warned her that it would be so. Dandelion had spun many tales during his time at court, and a number of these had been about their affair. Privacy was something the Bard had never held sacred.

However, it was interesting to note that while her name was not new for most, all that appeared to be known about her was her fierce love for the Witcher, and his for her. There were no stories to her name that Geralt was not a part of and whatsmore, people were thinking of her favourably. Yennefer was wholly unaccustomed to it, few people in the north ever judged her this kindly. She wasn't yet sure what to make of it.

"Yen..." Geralt's soft growl made the Sorceress turn her head. He was frowning at her slightly, seemingly catching on to what she'd been doing as they walked.

Yennefer waved a dismissive hand. "It's not fair that you should have all the fun, Geralt. Why can't I listen too?" A server passed them by and they each took a silver goblet from his tray. The Witcher drank half the wine in one long drink and she shot him a disapproving look. He wasn't drinking in the company of Zoltan and Dandelion today. "Anyhow, I've grown bored of it already. They've not got much to say worth listening to. All that's on their mind is you and your most recent heroics; I feel like a sideshow."

Geralt laughed. "There isn't a shadow in the world long enough to hide you, Yen, so don't worry about standing in mine." They began to walk again, finishing off their lap around the ballroom. People smiled politely at her and dipped their heads whenever Yennefer caught their eye. The event certainly had a warmer and more friendly appearance than their counterparts in the south, but its real face might not be quite as pretty. "Besides," Geralt continued, "I wouldn't be too sure that those eyes are for me. I imagine they hardly notice me when I stand beside you."

"It would appear we both have competition tonight, then," she replied. They stopped in a corner of the room, not huddled back against the wall but standing away from the main throng of the party. People would soon begin to approach them and this position guaranteed a steady rather than overwhelming flow of intrigue.

Geralt was watching her intently, she could see him staring at her out of the corner of her eye. "You've none," he said, an amorous smile playing on his lips, "I only have eyes for you."

Yennefer tittered softly and looked at him. "Toussaint has made you ever so romantic, Geralt. What am I to do?"

The Witcher's smile broadened and he held his hand against her face. "You're just going to have to get used to it." He kissed her, and Yennefer didn't care that the whole room might be watching. She could fix her image later.

* * *

Still upon Geralt's arm when they parted, Yennefer cast her eyes around to see if she could spy whom their likely first guest would be. She did, and he was a familiar one. Captain Damien de la Tour, who Yennefer knew for he had been thrice to see the Witcher since she moved south, asked how they faired and for a while, they talked about Beauclair and the Duchess' sister, Syanna. When others broke away from their food or dance to join them he would speak quickly and quietly of them, warning them of their faults and intents (at the Duchess' command, Yennefer suspected).

A great many people introduced themselves over the course of the night, a significant portion of whom were vintners. There was a lot of interest in Corvo Bianco, about the renovations and the likely production date for the wine. They were free with information about the former but would say nothing of their wine. It was best they didn't know how soon their wine would be gracing silver goblets. Yennefer doubted they'd be all too pleased about how she was putting her magic to use and she'd rather like to avoid the argument.

As the evening waned and the guests became increasingly inebriated, their interrogation was halted by the host of the ball. The nobleman who had been none too subtly asking about their finance hastily excused himself when it became clear that the Duchess and her entourage were coming towards them. Yennefer laughed and teased Geralt as he visibly relaxed following his departure; he'd also been blatantly flirting with her.

"We are glad to see that our invitations have not gone unreceived, Master Witcher," said Anna Henrietta nonchalantly, standing before them with her entourage to her back, half circled around them. Geralt shuffled his feet and dipped his head in response. The Duchess eyed him for several seconds and then turned to look at Yennefer. "We are also pleased to see that you have company this evening."

There was a moments pause. Yennefer squeezed Geralt's arm, he looked between them and cleared his throat. "Yes, Your Grace. This is Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, she's...someone very dear to me. I apologise for not attending sooner, but we've had a lot of lost time to make up for."

Just as Yennefer did, the Duchess allowed a small smile to pass her lips at his words. "Then you are forgiven, Master Geralt," she said, looking at him for the briefest of seconds before returning to the Sorceress. Her attention was intense, though nothing Yennefer hadn't encountered before. What was unusual, however, is that the Duchess seemed pleased with what she could see; an atypical quality among the nobility. "We are pleased to finally meet you, Lady Yennefer. Your name is known to us from Northern stories, and from the Nilfgaardian court. How are you enjoying Toussaint?"

Yennefer's smile broadened. She knew of the title and position her Grace was referring to, one the Sorceress had greatly accepted and intended never to leave. While it was true that she had escaped the world of politics and schemes, for the most part, there was one thing still tying her to it, if only in an informal capacity. When she arrived in the City of Golden Towers to help Ciri settle in, the young future Empress had made it abundantly clear of the role she held and the privileges and respect she expected her mother to be granted. Philippa had been fuming, and there was nothing she could do to Yennefer without sacrificing her place in court. They were at a marvellous impasse.

"I wish I had not waited so long to come, Your Grace. We have both taken our time, Geralt and I, but it is clear now that the destination has been worth our journey," Yennefer replied.

They talked with Damien and the Duchess as the plates, platters and goblets were gradually emptied and cleared. They stayed a while after they departed, talking to a few more notables including Syanna, before heading into the grounds. They looked, or rather she did, for a reclusive spot from which they could portal home (not knowing and not feeling inclined to ask what Toussaint etiquette would have to say about it). Geralt wasn't too keen on the idea which led Yennefer to believe that tonight hadn't been as torturous as he'd been expecting, otherwise, he'd have jumped at the chance to leave imminently. She'd only had to scold him four times throughout the night for fidgeting in his corset.

Admittedly, Yennefer's experience had also been more satisfying than she'd anticipated. She was even beginning to believe in what she'd told the Duchess - that Toussaint and Corvo Bianco were the end of the road. Here, they weren't too far from the North that they had to build their lives from scratch, but were removed enough from what had been to not have it taint first impressions. People judged them kindly here, and she was willing to get used to it. Better still, they respected - perhaps adored - their relationship. It was a change Yennefer would never confess she needed.

* * *

With the image of Geralt lying beside her fresh in her mind, Yennefer opened her eyes to see that she was alone and far from home. But she had just been there. What had happened? It must have been an illusion, at least that's what she first thought until a fault in her theory became apparent. Nothing bad had happened and she felt...something that didn't belong here. Something she didn't want to name.

She felt uneasy and wrapped her fingers around the blanket draped over her. No...not a blanket, a cloak. Geralt's cloak. He really had been there. She remembered watching him talk with O'Dimm about her, the bargaining chip, promising her dreams if he left. Was that what had happened to her? Sleep and dreams were concepts she understood in theory but not in practice, having gone lifetimes without. Yennefer pulled the cloak up to her face. She supposed it must smell of him, Yennefer couldn't remember. There were a lot of things she'd lost to time.

Yennefer closed her eyes and tried to fill her mind with the darkness she could see, but the throbbing of her wrists kept her mind from going blank. Only her eyes moved as she looked around from where she lay. Though still in the back of the cart a new sight rose from behind the bars of her cage. The edge of the stone forest. Her lip trembled. Why had he brought her here?

The wooden bottom of her cage creaked when she felt someone else rest their weight on it. They took a few steps towards her, covering the small distance between them quietly and with leisure. O'Dimm dropped to one knee and lowered his face into her field of view. She watched him without a sound, holding his gaze while trying to maintain a mask of indifference; rarely she had the energy to do so.

"I'm afraid it's time to move, Yenna," said O'Dimm. "You've rested long enough and we've things to do, so I must insist that you get up."

Yennefer waited. She watched him closely for any hint of what move he might make next when she showed no signs of following his command. There were times when she could predict what might come next, usually when O'Dimm knew that the knowledge of what was coming would cut her with a sense of foreboding. This was not one of those occasions, though the dread was everpresent.

O'Dimm dropped his eyes from her face and looked her up and down. He then reached out a hand towards her and Yennefer pulled her hand to her chest. That, however, wasn't what he wanted as his fingers curled around the edge of the cloak. Yennefer went stiff and the half-cocked retort she had died on her lips. O'Dimm looked back at her.

"I'm prepared to make you a deal, Yenna," he said kindly, lowering his voice. "If you promise to follow me through the forest like a faithful, loyal mutt, then I'll let you keep his cloak in the Hanging Gardens. Do we have a deal?"

Yennefer opened her mouth and closed it without a word. She turned away from his empty eyes and looked at the cloak. Yennefer had meant to say no, but something had stopped her from spitting in his face and the hesitation sent her mind reeling. She wasn't sure what she wanted anymore. What was more important. There was little chance to work it out either, as from the corner of her eye she saw that the part of the cloak which O'Dimm was holding had begun to smoke. She quickly had to make up her mind.

* * *

She remembered her last trip to the stone forest with intolerable clarity. It was the first part of O'Dimm's Realm that she saw. He'd told her then that it was a one-time trip, a ritual or tradition for new souls that they only experienced once. As they walked under the heavy boughs of his trees, O'Dimm apologised for lying to her. He said that it was unintentional, that he hadn't known they'd have to come back here. Yennefer ignored him as best she could. It wasn't the first time he'd told her she was special. He said she should feel honoured to be one of the Favoured. She wasn't.

Trying to block Gaunter out, Yennefer kept her eyes to the floor. Even though they weren't going up the incline towards the mountain, instead going around it, the walk wasn't easy. It was a scramble and her hands and bare feet were chilled from touching the pieces of stone strewn across the ground like fallen logs. The increasing numbness which spread through her bones made the journey harder with each passing second. Then there was the fact she couldn't always see what was coming.

Her mind kept moving from here to back then and she was too tired to keep the memories at bay. She didn't want to go through it all again but didn't doubt that it was the fate she was walking towards. As she phased in and out of the moment, often she'd return to O'Dimm's hands as he guided her blindly forwards, sometimes half-carrying her when she lost herself. He talked idly for the entire trip, not commenting when she tripped or lost her focus. In doing so, he denied her a chance to retort or bite at him.

After a time the forest started to thin and red filled Yennefer's vision. The Blood Lake spanned for miles, one of its edges stroking the mist that encased the island and another the mountain's base. There was a small island in the middle of its calm, bloody waters, the tips of four giant-sized fingers reaching out from the depths. Every detail was as she had recalled.

As O'Dimm went to the brink of the lake, Yennefer stopped just within the border of the forest keeping her eyes on the back of his head. He didn't seem to care that she wouldn't come any closer, not even turning to grin at her. Instead, he threw stones at the lake, making them skip across its waters. With her back against a tree, Yennefer slid to the ground and drew her knees to her chest. She drew the cloak around her and looked at the mountain, trying to keep the red from her vision. Wrapping her right hand around her left wrist she put pressure against the red mark the shackles had left on her skin. The throb intensified until it threatened to bring tears to her eyes. It helped her keep her mind occupied from thoughts of her previous visit, a painful but welcomed distraction. It wouldn't be as bad this time around, she tried to tell herself, because at least she knew what was to come.

After a while it seemed that O'Dimm got bored of his game, dropping his handful of stones and walking towards her. She kept looking ahead at the mountain holding down a flinch when her handler sat beside her.

"There is something you must do for me, Yenna," he said. "Someone draws near." Under the tight grip of her fingers, Yennefer felt her pulse begin to race. She'd been wrong, this was worse. What if they saw her enter the water? O'Dimm chuckled softly. "You shan't be bathing in the lake, not again. I will not let the waters touch you, Yenna, you have my word. What I need you to do is strip for me."

The touch of his breath against the side of her neck made Yennefer's skin crawl. She tugged the cloak further up her shoulders and held it tightly around her. "If you want a show, O'Dimm, go steal the soul of a whore. I'm not selling, whatever the price."

O'Dimm sighed and knelt in front of her so that she couldn't miss the pitying expression upon his face. "Don't make this harder than it has to be, child. Take off your clothes, or I shall get someone to do it for you. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

Yennefer closed her eyes.

* * *

Voltaire: Chapter 25, Bloodied Waters

"It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets."

* * *

I think I've managed to more than double my Yennefer POV count with this chapter. Hope you enjoyed (?) the insight into how she fairs. There will be more chapters like this in the future. If you haven't done so, make sure to reread chapters 2&4 for the new information I added as last month's update. Next month we're checking in on Philippa, see you then Xx


	25. Bloodied Waters

She floated lazily in the darkness, heat pressed against her back like a lover who had stayed until tomorrow came through the curtains of their hidden room. It was almost peaceful, she thought, if not for the sense of dread and horror that it instilled in her. Whatever manner of blackness it was that she saw, it held her firmly in its grasp and would not relax its hold for her to do as little as ruffle her feathers. It would not let her change either. Philippa was lost in the darkness.

It felt worse than before, back when she had been trapped by dimeritium as a bird in Novigrad under the eyes of the Witch Hunters. At least then, the 'why' component of her situation had been quick and simple to solve and, though the information had not aided her, it had been one less question about her circumstances to worry about. This time around, however, Philippa could not find the answer to the same question. She couldn't see it or feel it bent around her skin and without knowing how she was trapped in this body, she could not conjure up any thoughts of how to escape. Philippa felt her mind fall to pieces in the wake of her uncertainty.

They rattled around her skull in tiny pieces and she wondered whether, if she could tilt her head, pieces would spill out of her skull like the sand which tumbled down the ivory hourglass in her study. But they did not escape her, instead, colliding in the darkness, sending shockwaves of sounds and images through the darkness which stunned and overwhelmed her consciousness. Arising from the boundless darkness before her, Philippa saw a cascade of red slinking towards her until, like a wave which crashed upon the harbour, it swallowed her. It drenched and soaked her with indescribable pain that seeped into each fibre of her being.

The anguish she had felt when the Red King had gouged out her eyes with a dainty wooden spoon did not compare to what she felt. Screams which did not all fall from her lips serenaded her. The voices of a thousand men, women and children wrapped around her, sharing in the age-old song of misery and affliction. There were a few among them that she recognised, some distinctively, others in passing memory, but whether known or not their voices all plunged a dagger in her heart.

Relentlessly they cried in her ears, burrowing their way through her tiny skull. The voices were everywhere and they hurt her, pushing the life and warmth from her body. She was terribly cold. Philippa tried to withdraw from them, drawing a wall around herself, but her defences were cracked and flawed. The voices breached her sanctuary with ease, pursuing her sanity which had nowhere else to go. Why couldn't the voices leave her alone? What did they want? Why did they scream? It was all too loud, all too much.

As the voices continued to lament her, the red hiding behind the lids of her eyes shimmered, dashes of light splintered across it. She stared at the bloody waters, a red gem among a crown of grey stone. Its surface was smooth and opaque, showing no trace of what might lie beneath, hiding the bodies of the dead which were sunk at its foundations. Philippa felt the voices shift around her skull, feeling them dive into the waters pooled beneath her as the world became as still and silent as a painting. A hollow shadow of life. She looked down at the bloody lake, but the waters ignored her questions. Then, the voices began again and with their song, they drew her closer to the bloodied waters.

Philippa stared at the water, and it looked back at her with a ferocity that could not be found on the face of a thousand men. The surface of the bloody lake rippled as a finger protruded from the depths. It brushed against the feathers of her belly, coating them with red and, when the voices screamed again, she knew all the names and faces of the dead.

* * *

She lay enervated and sombre in the darkness, cold pressed against her back like an unforgiving morning breeze that foreshadowed the beginning of a particularly wearisome day. Palms flat against the surface upon which she rested, Philippa felt rough stone pressed against her human skin. She couldn't recall transforming back, but the uneasiness that realisation caused in her was offset by how good it felt to be in her own skin again.

Slowly Philippa sat up and saw that she was resting upon a stone slab several feet off the ground. She swung her legs over the side and hunched over, fingers circling around the edge of what had been her bed. Her muscles were laden and sweat clung to her brow from her brief excursion. She'd hoped to have left all exhaustion of this kind behind her in the fog, but whatever had happened to her left Philippa drained again.

As she caught her breathe, the Sorceress took in her surroundings, watching out for any possible signs of danger or perhaps an answer to one of the many questions she had about her circumstances. There was little to see, however, as but a small light illuminated the cave, which she assumed (if logic had a place in this world) was where she found herself. The flame from the candle at the foot of her bed created a bubble of light around her and showed to her a jagged stone wall at her back which curved around her bed before disappearing in the darkness. She considered, briefly, using a spell to disperse the darkness but decided that, given the horrors that might be lurking in wait, it would be a waste of her already depleted strength. Instead, she chose to listen. Her ears might not be as sharp as Geralt's, but they were still better than most.

As she focused and diverted her mind to her task, Philippa became aware that she was not alone. It was ever so faint, but it was there, she was certain. Somebody was breathing across the room from her, somewhere in the darkness lurked a living thing. She blew out the candle. Philippa felt her heart palpitate as she listened to the slow and steady sign of life that existed in the darkness alongside her own. Her breathing seemed suddenly all too loud. Be it ever so carefully, as though fearing that the slightest of movement would make the darkness shift to uncover her, the startled Sorceress uncurled her fingers from the edge of her stone bed and placed them in her lap. She tried to stay as still as could be after that, thankful for the many dull hours she'd spent posturing before an easel.

A minute or two passed without change, seconds playing on repeat as Philippa matched the rhythmic breathing of her roommate. When she was comfortable that she could keep pace with them without conscious thought, Philippa opened her clear head to the questions and problems that had arisen from this new development. It was possible that whoever - or whatever, which was a question for another time - it was that occupied the room alongside her was guarding her against the possibility of escape. They could be watching her through the darkness, studying her and waiting to see what move she might make next. She might, of course, simply be paranoid, but then again, after everything that had happened since she arrived in this hellish place, it was justified and once justified, paranoia ceased to exist.

Knowing that she needed to get back to the others made the possibility of a fight probable and served to complicate things further. Leaving with haste would offer the best chance of finding her companions, but it could extract from her a heavy price. Weakened as she was, having to fight against an opponent of unknown capability, intention and origin might well push her reserves to the brink. What the would mean for her, Philippa could only guess, for while at home to avail oneself to magic beyond their mortal grasp would herald an everlasting darkness, the Realm of Glass knew nothing of endings. What then, if anything could, would take its place and fill the void behind the final breathe? Philippa, a Mistress of knowledge to whom mystery and uncertainty were an offence of the highest calibre, did not desire to know.

Patience was another option at her disposal, but it was equally as problematic as haste. Any extra energy and spells she might have at her disposal further down the line could easily be offset by the coming of additional guards and other devilish surprises. The others might be too far gone for her to find them too, and she would be left alone at the side of the road which led to the depths of hell knowing in her heart of hearts that she could not go back even while the thought of progression seemed far-fetched and assuredly out of reach.

Either way, it would seem, time was not on her side. Philippa weighed her choices carefully. For all the thought she put into picking her path, however, never was she granted an opportunity to test her logic. As they often do, by way of life, her state of affairs changed and lay down new courses that she might follow. This alteration, of which Philippa was not immediately acquainted with, appeared at first as a flicker of light upon the floor. Steadily the glow grew brighter, travelling further along the floor and crawling up the wall and towards the high ceiling of the cave. Footsteps accompanied it soon after.

Illuminated with an intensity matched only feebly by the candle which was alight when she had wakened, the details of the room revealed themselves to Philippa's curiosity. It was roughly circular in shape and about ten feet wide, a tall set of tables and chairs carved from stone furnished its centre along with two beds fashioned as alcoves in the walls. One of these she occupied, sitting at its edge with her feet dangling a few inches off the ground, while the other was taken also.

Philippa was both surprised and disappointed (the latter the strongest of the two responses to such a great degree that the former dissipated almost instantly) to see the back of a familiar set of robes across the room from her. Though there was no mop of hair appearing at their top, for the owner was so tightly curled in on themselves, the figure was of the same stature as the man who she had last seen the clothes upon. It seemed to her that Istredd had made it through the mist after all. While the clothes were truly the only indication of the figure's identity, Philippa thought it unlikely that another would be dressed as him, for what effect would it have upon her to see that she had not stumbled upon him? Delight, most likely.

She intended to make no effort to help him escape if it proved to be a necessary course of action, and rather hoped that he might serve as a distraction against whatever was coming towards them. The light which granted her a view of the room was coming from a corridor to her left and between her and Istredd, and the footsteps which echoed down it were becoming increasingly louder. Patiently she waited with her eyes trained on the entrance and a mask of impassivity upon her face. When the bearer of the light emerged into the room, a woman of cold composure greeted him with a measured glare that dismissed at once from the mind all thought that she was distressed by her situation and that she was not in control.

The figure halted in its movements when it saw that she was awake. He was humanoid unlike any she'd seen before, tall and well built like an elf, towering above her at almost seven feet, but with the broad shoulders and thick hair of a dwarf from the Mahakam mountains. His skin was ashen grey and matte, like a layer of dust coated him. She could see three large fingers and a thumb wrapped around the handle of a glass panelled lamp that he held up before his face. His physique, which was clearly unveiled for he wore only a pair of black cotton pants, was of the kind found exclusively within the arts.

But his face was the most striking detail of his appearance, for it seemed to belong to another man. It was oblong and seamed, betraying his otherwise youthful semblance, and over his high forehead flowed a mass of brown hair. His features, partially hidden by a platted beard which reached down to his collar-bone, were soft and amenable and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth held an aura of wisdom and gentility to them that she had seen in so few faces. It was a lived-in face of which any Bard would be proud, for it invited curiosity and intrigue and informed all passers-by that the wearer of that aged mask could make the dreariness of life melt away with the tales he told.

As she took in his appearance and judged to some degree the weight of his character, a pair of close-set but intelligent eyes of grass-green fixed upon her face. If any ill-intent they held, it was hidden well; Philippa could find nought but good-will behind them. He appeared wholly a man of benevolent mien.

"Greetings," said the figure, his voice fruity but slightly hoarse. "My name is Arjak. I hope I did not startle you, you have awakened sooner than I anticipated. Please, forgive my absence."

He watched her with an air of expectancy and when the silence lay uninterrupted - Philippa was still reading his character and did not wish to reveal her own part as of yet - Arjak smiled and nodded his head. He hung the lamp from a hook in the centre of the room above the table and pulled out one of the great stone chairs, carrying it to the side of Istredd's bed where he sat at an angle so that she could still make out most of his face.

"Your friend has still not woken and he had been with me for some time," he said sympathetically, looking up from the man's limp body. "Soon, soon he will be with us. Soon, I promise."

Philippa narrowed her eyes. "He is not my friend, simply an unfortunate acquaintance," she corrected, indulgently, as the thought of being associated with the man offended her in a manner she couldn't rightly describe.

"I meant no disrespect," he replied, holding up his palms to her, which were cracked and rough like mud dried out by an unbearable summer heat. When she did not respond to his apology, Arjak continued to fill the silence with the sound of his own voice. Philippa listened with content, rarely interrupting as he answered many of the questions on her mind without prompting. His speech was well rehearsed, a fact that he himself explained in due course.

"You are wondering how it is that you ended up in my company, are you not, Philippa Eilhart? And yes, I know who you are, your arrival was expected, that of you and your friends. I have heard such a question fall from many lips in the eternity I have spent within the shadow of this mountain and at the end of the bloody river that pools at its feet. That was where I found you, submerged in red, and fished you out and cleaned and cared for you, as I have the others before you, and as I will those that follow, should more ever come to this accursed place.

"I am Arjak, the Caretaker and one of the Favoured. When unlucky mortal souls - for I do not believe a man or woman among us deserving of the destiny into which they entered when O'Dimm so purposefully crossed their paths - pass into the possession of the Master, it is to me that they first come, as the bloodied lake breaks their fall and takes the first beating at their sanity. The voices of the dead, you see, have settled in its waters, and their cries conjure to mind the most grotesque and frantically repellent scenes. They break down the mind so that the Master may remake it to his pleasing.

"You were lucky, Philippa Eilhart, if you trust in me that such a thing is possible, for only fleeting moments passed before I took you from the river. The voices scratched you, but whole you have remained. Your wings carried you close to the edge, while all the others I have rescued have made me wade deep into the centre, as your acquaintance, Istredd, did, and Yennefer of Vengerberg too."

Philippa's eyebrows twitched. "You've seen her?" she asked, the question slipping from her tongue without her intention.

"Yes, I have met almost all the souls that inhabit this place; it is my burden to know them and to welcome all the damned to the Master's home. Yennefer of Vengerberg was the last soul, before you arrived, that I had fished from the waters of the dead. It haunts me to know that a woman such as she - a once troubled thing raised in unforgettable darkness with virtue still ripe in her soul - would find her story on this never-ending page of horrible suggestion."

Philippa dropped her chin to her chest and rubbed her thumbs together, her hands still folded together in her lap. For as long as she could remember, Philippa had never had a liking for stories, her reading exclusively factual and informative in nature. The reason behind her outlook on fiction had, too, remained unchanged over the course of her longevity - they were fanciful. Books existed to tell the tales that no biography could ever claim to know, for they were too righteous and captivating to belong within the pages of a memoir. Yennefer's story was proof of the twisted reality that carried them from life to death, because her fate was so cruel as to be beyond conception; it was too wicked to be true, and that was how you knew it wasn't fiction.

The Caretaker remained silent as she collected herself, no doubt understanding in his boundless wisdom and experience, the face of an ill at ease soul. When she drew herself up, shoulders back and a blank expression covering her face, he continued.

"When the strength you have recovered is enough to carry you forwards, to the mountain you must turn, as your friends have. That is the path which will lead you to what you seek, to O'Dimm's Hanging Gardens where the seat of his power, the Black Throne, stands tall and proud in the demoniacal Malum Tower. If you seek to know more about what you might find, elsewhere your search must go, because I am but a humble Caretaker for whom the knowledge of the world's architecture is out of reach; be that a blessing or a curse. I wish I could impart more wisdom upon you, Philippa Eilhart, for I hope with all that is left of me, that you leave this place with that which you have lost."

"Thank you," the Sorceress replied. "If that is all you have to say, then I am ready to take my leave."

"Of course, allow me to show you the way."

"Wait..." Both now upon their feet, Philippa and Arjak turned towards the other bed upon which Istredd was stirring. "Wait," he croaked again, lifting himself upon two shaking arms into a sitting position from which he could see their faces, and Philippa his. His expression was haunted and his skin ghoulishly pale; his eyes, bloodshot and unsettlingly lifeless, made her breath catch in her throat. Arjak was right, fate had been kind to her.

"I'm coming with you."

* * *

They journeyed in silence, following carefully in Arjak's footsteps as he led them up the mountain and towards what he described as the gateway to the main house. The path they had taken from the crossroads, he explained, should be thought of as a seldom travelled road (for only they and no other souls had walked it) which twisted its way through a wasteland to a house on the very outskirts of civilization. It was a nameless place that existed in superstition and old wives' tales, and though no living man had seen it, countless stories and horrors were told about it with fear and reverence that brought the place to life.

When one dared walk the path to the unnamed house, wearily they'd stumble upon the withered front garden and into the care of the unexpectedly gentle Caretaker. He'd look after them and nurse them to health only to be soon parted with their company and returned to his loneliness, as the foreigner crossed to the front gate and entered the vestibule of the great nameless house never to be seen again. The Caretaker mourned for the travellers and for the knowledge that he had saved them for nothing.

As Arjak put their journey into perspective, Philippa wondered if she'd remember life outside O'Dimm's home when - or if, a thought that she did not welcome but could not disown - they completed their quest. If his metaphor was to be taken literally, they had many more corners of the Realm of Glass to explore before they reached their journey's end, and many more chances, therefore, to lose their way (and in more than just a literal sense). Would they have a home to return to, if they took too long? She thought not, not because the foundations of their lives would have turned to dust under the shadow of a new age, but because they'd be too much changed to return to the lives they had left behind. What that meant for Yennefer, she did not know, but Philippa was certain that they'd not return with the woman they lost however things played out here.

The Sorceress rubbed her temples. It wasn't worth thinking about home, not yet. For once in her life, she needed to focus on one problem at a time; multi-tasking wasn't a preferable option when Yennefer's soul (whomever it may now be) was on the line. Philippa watched Arjak's hair, which reached down to his waist, sway as he climbed. He was constantly adjusting his pace to keep up with them, a thoughtful gesture had it not been for the fact that Philippa had rather been hoping to leave Istredd behind. He'd insisted on coming, despite Arjak's kind words and her spiteful ones, but had since fallen completely silent, asking no questions nor answering her glares and her intentionally aggravating remarks. The last she didn't understand, so out of character that it was, and Philippa supposed that Arjak hadn't been exaggerating when he spoke about the power held by the voices of the dead. As for his lack of curiosity, he'd likely been awake when Arjak had been talking with her and had eavesdropped from behind his misery.

She found that deeply annoying, not that anything he could have overheard was cause for concern. Philippa began to replay the conversation in her head when something Arjak had said piqued her interest. "What does it mean to be one of the Favoured?" It was a phrase she remembered him using when he'd introduced himself.

If he was surprised by her sudden interest, Arjak did not show it, but a strange and sorrowful weariness laced his words.

"Occasionally in his work, Master Mirror comes across a soul whom sparks in him a special kind of curiosity and excitement. For them he bides his time, watching and waiting as their stories unfold, until a desire to which he can attend begins to burn within them. When he hath struck a bargain with these souls and is due his pay, the Master of this Realm finds a place among the gears of his operation that would suit them with cruel perfection. This island, this barren and bleeding rock, is mine - my prison and my eternal torment."

"What did you do in life, what bargain did you strike, that made you one of the Favoured? And how does this punishment fit you?" Philippa asked.

This time, Arjak stopped walking and turned to face her when the question passed from her lips. An expression of pain twisted his gentle features and the depths of his eyes were muddied with unshed tears. In an instance as rare as the eclipse, Philippa felt genuine pity and sorrow for her guide and wished that she could recall that which she had said.

"That, Philippa Eilhart, is a question I have been asked more times than a Tinker has been queered about the authenticity of his mystic wares. Yet, the burden of its answers, in defiance of all the times I have been forced to share it, for once uttered a response I must give, remains a crushing weight that stills my heart. Much shame and regret it stirs in me to talk of the life I led after my soul had been marked as the property of another when death befell me.

"Long before the first blade of grass showed its tips to the sun which shares its light with your world, my civilization faced the end of days. Too fast we had grown, seeking new wonders and achievements, never satisfied with that which we already had nor concerned with the future our actions were setting in motion. Selfish and greedy we were, and the weight of our existence - of our endless pursuit for more - was too much for our home to bear, and slowly it began to die. I buried my family under the barren earth of my ancestor's making, from which no flowers would sprout for all the tears that fell upon the grave.

"From atop their place of resting, I prayed to my Gods for salvation and for the knowledge to preserve the life of my people. For years no answer came, and upon myself I took the task of pursuing knowledge that could halt our heralded extinction. It was during this quest than I came upon the Master in the depths of our most ancient library half buried under ruins. Details aplenty I can provide of our conversation, should they interest you, but to the point I shall otherwise remain. I made a deal with the Master, offering my soul in eternal servitude should he grant me the power and command to save my people and our home.

"To me, he gifted a new understanding upon which I acted with unwavering determination and righteousness. Across many lands I travelled, and in my wake pooled a river of blood from those lives taken by my hand to ease the burden of our existence. Like a mountain I planted myself, firm and unwavering, unperturbed by the reason and wisdom cast upon me by my people until beneath our planet there did lie half of civilization. As the blood of my last culling dried upon the end of my blade, the horror of my actions was revealed to me and the gravity of that which I had done, even in the knowledge that upon the foundations of the dead my people would live on, took from me the strength to go on.

"Here I awoke, floating in the blood of my people and with the voices of the dead ringing in my ear so that I would forever remember the names and faces of the dead."

* * *

Philippa refrained from asking any more questions for the remainder of the journey. At some point along the mountain, Arjak stopped and showed to them an impossibly detailed butterfly made of stone. A piece of time lies trapped within, he explained; the final moments of another's life encased in stone to be experienced upon its shattering.

"Be careful where you step, for the eyes of death bearing into one's soul is not a memory that the mortal mind should hold," said Arjak. "Philippa Eilhard, Istredd, I wish you good luck in your journey for here I must leave you as my path can be walked with you no further. Lady Yennefer's fate could be held by no greater hands than your own."

Philippa thanked him and watched for a while as the lonely Caretaker departed for the bloodied waters of the lake which had stained his hands. With great caution they proceeded without him, spying the steps of their companions along the way and piles of broken stone that marked their encounters' with death. The same fate they avoided, however, arriving at the top of the mountain with their sanity no more damaged than it had been before the climb. There they found a hole filled with unending darkness that pulled into the mind thoughts of terribly forbidden things.

With nowhere else to go but into the heart of the mountain, Philippa stepped forwards and let the blackness drag her down with ravenous speed. Time ceased in its existence as she lost count of the minutes which had passed since last the soles of her feet felt anything besides the upward rush of wind against them. As she fell noiselessly down, down, down, with the silence of death crowned upon her head and draped around her face like a bride's veil, the light of the first morning after winter began to push away the darkness around her. Rejoicing, Philippa let the feathers beneath her skin touch its glow and she flew quickly towards the darkness' bane.

Welcome as it was, but having spent so long without it, to her eyes the light was painfully intense, almost blinding her to the still, crystalline body of water towards which she was hurtling. Her claws cut open its serenity as she flew a hairsbreadth above its surface and landed none too gracefully at the edge of the pool. With the water to her back and the tip of the mountain far overhead, there was a tunnel which stretched out before her of the curious sort that summoned one to nought but its end, for no doors or branches did it hold. To what destination is lead, however, Philippa could not be certain, for it was not in sight but obscured by something coloured like sickly flesh.

So obscure and grotesque the shape was that to it no words or intelligible description could be applied by any man whose head was set squarely upon his shoulders, for to think upon that which the eyes saw would be to render with horrid clarity the existence of such a creature forever before the unblinking mind's eye. Chilled with the fear instilled in her by a mere glance at the abomination, many moments passed before she noticed the sounds echoing down the horror-filled tunnel. Triss, her voice as unique and distinguishable as her famous auburn hair, was shouting a number of defensive incantations. The abomination, for all its size and strength, Philippa noted, was proceeding deeper into the tunnel with leaden steps.

Roused from her torpor by her companion's defiance, Philippa flew with great speed down the tunnel and past the abomination, a sudden wave of trepidation cascading anew over her when she neared it, so that her wings trembled and her heart beat with dangerous ferocity. She was forced to land almost as soon as she'd passed it by, its presence projecting such as powerful aura of misery and harrowing possibility that it drained from her both the will and the strength to keep going. On her hands and knees she landed, a spasm of pain raking briefly up her limbs which went entirely ignored for it was a trivial feeling when compared to that which the abomination had wrought in her.

When she looked up it was the faces of Geralt and Ciri that first she saw as they stood behind a great doorway at the end of the tunnel, beckoning her towards them. She started to hurry to her feet and was helped along her way by a hand pulling at her forearm. Istredd, who by some miracle must have slid under the feet of the abomination, or else passed close by its side, got Philippa to her feet before they sprinted to the end. When just inside the room concealed behind the doors, they turned to look through the gap and back the way they had come. She caught a glimpse of Triss collapsing, spent, to her knees before the tunnel was sealed off entirely.

* * *

John Marsden - Tomorrow, When the War Began: **Chapter 26, Darkness Descending**

"Some people wake up drowsy. Some people wake up energized. I wake up dead."

* * *

Firstly I apologise for the lack of an update last month (April), as I mentioned on Twitter I hadn't the time to write much that month because of coursework and summer job hunting. Things should, however, now be back on track. Secondly, welcome new writing style, for how long will you be staying? I've begun to read 'The Calls of Cthulhu' and HP Lovecraft is already rubbing off on me. Thirdly, I'm rather hoping to write a Marvel one-shot in June which I do hope you'll enjoy. I thought it would be nice to try something new, to dabble in something outside the realm of surrealism and fantasy. Fingers crossed it goes as planned.

As always, if you've enjoyed the story thus far please don't be shy, I'd love to hear from you in the comments or on Twitter. Until next we meet Xx


	26. Darkness Descending

John Marsden - Tomorrow, When the War Began: Chapter 26, Darkness Descending

"Some people wake up drowsy. Some people wake up energized. I wake up dead."

* * *

Thin columns of lightly perfumed smoke drifted lazily towards the ceiling from the dozen candles which filled the room with a pleasing orange hue that defended the mind against the depressing lack of sunlight or colour. The room held an unmistakable air of mystery and intrigue, for every detail lent itself to the wonderfully bizarre; from the boxes of dried rose petals to the pickled remains of presently unrecognisable living things. Shadows pranced on the anachronistic stone walls and wooden pillars that made up the perimeter of Corvo Bianco's unofficial subterraneous laboratory.

Much of Regis' time in the past few days had been dedicated to that little room of Yennefer's, for with little else to do around the estate that could distract their anxious minds and restless hands, to medicine making and study had some of the physicians and priestesses turned. They were uncomfortable, you see, for never before had they participated in war upon a silent stage where there would enter at any time an unknown number of undetermined players whose parts could not be determined for in no script were these characters contained. A disturbing serenity had settled upon Corvo Bianco and its presence had rendered many of the great minds congregated there paranoid and agitated, for it seemed to them that if the enemy was biding his time, then he must perceive that the tides of war will act in his favour.

In preparation for what was coming, though that was an uncertainty as deeply troubling and as an unanswerable as when it may come, Regis found that his apprehension was quelled and thus he found himself within the laboratory, pouring over ancient Witcher tomes and with a mortar and pestle in hand. He suspected that it was what drew the others there too, but it was hard to say with certainty because people feared that to speak of the disturbing serenity would be to tear it asunder and release upon them O'Dimm's boundless wrath.

Tonight, however, for a strange hour it was in which tomorrow had come under the darkness of yesterday's evening, when Regis again found himself in search of something to do, there was only Shani to keep him company. He'd come to know the woman well and regarded her as a fine medic and a rare friend, for all the hours they had spent conversing in Yennefer's laboratory. Into another tale they dove that night that is tomorrow's morning, and Regis listened attentively to the details she shared as she spoke at length about Geralt's last encounter with Master Mirror.

"After that," Shani continued," we went to speak with Professor Premethine Shakeslock, the man Olgierd hired to learn more about O'Dimm in the hopes of breaking the pact. That was how Geralt learnt that he could challenge him by betting his soul on a game of wits, but that was all the information we got from him. A bookcase toppled while they were talking, Geralt caught it but the Professor slipped on a bottle and fell out of the protective circle; he died in an instant. I guess O'Dimm doesn't take kindly to having the air of mystery and possibility that encircles him disturbed."

"It's rather ironic, don't you think? That O'Dimm desires to know all he can about the lives and minds of the mortals he entangles in his plot, but about him, we can fill less than a page for any more after that he would burn."

Shani nodded in agreement. When her tale had come to an end upon the moon of Lilvani's temple, Regis encouraged her to seek rest for wearier than most she looked. He walked with her to one of the houses that the worker's usually occupied and promised to spin for her his own tale when next they worked in the laboratory. Regis then proceeded to wander the grounds just outside the sturdy walls of Corvo Bianco for the movement of his feet helped in concentration, giving him a sense that his thoughts were leading to something.

He'd glimpsed little information from Shani's recollection, and yet all that she had told him was of substantial size when compared to what he had learned from his other sources over the past two years of his search. To the many libraries of men, elves, vampires and ancient times he had been in search of tomes and scrolls that would reveal to him some specifics of Mater Mirror's character and corporal makeup. Within all the literature dedicated to the study of life and history that he had deliberated over, however, he found no mention of a person bearing any resemblance to the elusive merchant of souls and wishes.

At a loss as to where else he might turn in his pursuit for this dangerous knowledge, he found himself delving rather bleakly into the work of poets, authors, bards and playwrights, and to the stories shared by word of mouth among his literate brethren. To his everlasting surprise, there he found what he sought, and he supposed quite rightly that O'Dimm's person was so outlandish and ineffable that only in fiction could it be recorded. The tales spoke in hesitant passing of a simple, travelling merchant who sold not the wares he held but offered instead a great service for which a King would give his throne. Drawn by the pursuit of boundless happiness and untold fortune, those that crossed the merchant's path would strike with him a deal that told of unfathomable possibility who's end forever remained unchanged; misfortune lay behind each path one might take after an encounter with O'Dimm.

It frustrated Regis perhaps more than was reasonable to know almost nothing besides the name of the enemy with whom they had entered into this deadly game. He prided himself on knowing a great deal about the history and science of the world and was thus unused to the sensation of uncertainty and unpredictability that he had encountered when first the name and deeds of Gaunter O'Dimm had been uttered to him in frightful whispers. There were no means available to him to predict the outcome that might likely arise when the darkness fell upon them and thus no specific scenarios for which they could guard against. Unknown odds, he found, were far more terrifying than knowing that to set foot upon the fields of war was to step a foot into his grave, so to speak. Regis had already been reduced to a smattering of conscious organic matter twice in his longevity and the experience was one that he desired to avoid re-experiencing at almost any cost.

As he walked under the gated archway and onto the grounds of the main house, he spied a young woman dressed in the colours of the night searching the grounds. It appeared that Syanna had found that which she sought, for when she noticed him she briskly walked towards him.

"Regis, it's Dandelion. He's awake."

* * *

The main house was in a state of waking when he pushed upon the front door and took the steps upstairs two at a time, the cooks already up and beginning the preparations for breakfast. On the landing, he saw the Duchess, dressed in expertly tailored travelling clothes of black and gold thread, standing outside the door to the main bedroom. She was talking quietly with a silver plated gentleman he recognised to be Damien, her captain of the Ducal guard. Briefly, he overheard the knight informing her Grace that all was well in Beauclair and that no matters which required her attention had yet arisen before they fell to silence as he climbed the last step.

The Duchess smiled sadly at him as he came to the door and placed a gentle hand on his wrist when he wrapped his fingers around the handle. "I must warn you, Regis, that I have seen Dandelion with my own eyes and he is...far from himself," she said.

Regis nodded his understanding and opened the door, the ward erected around the Master bedroom letting him through.

All the proxies were there, lying on the floor around the bed upon which Yennefer's preserved body was laid out. Rita and a few of the guards, mostly Toussaint knights, were scattered about along with one of Nenneke's priestesses. They were all staring out at the balcony. The Sorceress, who'd been standing at the foot of the bed with her arm wrapped around her and a hand over her mouth, looked over her shoulder at Regis when he entered. Heavy blue eyes that looked so odd set upon her youthful and genial face, turned from him to the balcony and back again. Passing the others, who stood as watchful statues over the bodies of the dead but not gone, he stepped through the glass doors.

Dandelion was cowering in the corner, pressed tightly against the stone, perhaps hoping to melt into it in the heat of the coming morning that soon would begin to creep softly over Corvo Bianco's green and purple tinted fields. His shoulders shook under the burden of the unimaginable horrors that he must have seen in his crossing, and he hugged his knees and pressed his forehead against his arms, now draped with sodden sloth. He did not stir when Regis lowered himself carefully to the floor beside him, nor when he called the Bard's name and spoke of his presence there beside him.

With the patience of a seed that knows that great worth lies in waiting to plant its roots when the sun is bright and the soil rich and moist, Regis waited still and silently on the balcony beside his friend. He watched the grounds begin to bustle with life when the rays of the sun peaked over the edge of the world and painted the sky and its clouds with Dawn's orange hue. Food was being carried out to the tents and a new rotation of guards were taking to their posts, full with an early breakfast to start off the morning. Regis enjoyed watching the comings and goings of civilization; observation was as key to understanding the lives of humanoids as was integration and the knowledge of their culture and behaviours was something that had fascinated him. He's always regarded himself as somewhat of an anthropologist and he'd helped other vampires understand their human, elf and dwarf neighbours.

Regis was recollecting some of those instances when Dandelion lifted up his head and stared blankly with bloodshot eyes into the distance. He watched the Bard out of the corner of his eye, waiting and studying each detail of his face and countenance. For all the great many experiences he had enjoyed and suffered upon this world and his distant own, none, Regis guessed, could give him even the slightest inclination into what Dandelion was going through. He thought it best, then, to watch closely and listen well.

"Four days," he said croakily after another half hour. "They say its been four days since...since we began the journey. Is that true?"

"It is," Regis replied.

Dandelion closed his eyes and pressed the sides of his steepled hands against his nose, thumbs hooking under his chin upon which many tears glistened. It was troubling for Regis to see Dandelion so at a loss for words, for typically hyper-verbal was he. In their travels he had found that with himself Dandelion could easily converse, for often did the Bard think aloud and processes the events of his life where others could hear him. Unusual it was, then, to see behind his eyes deep thought that did not fill the silence around them.

Reaching to his left, Regis produced an enchanted silver pitcher of icy water and poured for Dandelion a half-filled goblet from which he could drink without fear that his shaking hands might spill the water. Without courtesy - the lack of which would have annoyed Regis under different circumstances - Dandelion took the goblet and eyed it curiously. He took several slow and hesitant sips, choking not once but twice, before all the water was drained and into an empty cup he stared with his pitiful reflection looking back in return.

"Years, it feels like I was there for years, centuries, and yet days I can count on one hand have passed." Dandelion turned his head and for the first time met Regis' gaze. Dull were his eyes, the youthful spirit that was usually held there worn away if not all together choked by the weight of his experience. "What does that mean, Regis, for Yennefer? Look at me! If in four days I have lived another lifetime, what time has she spent with - _him_."

Dandelion's lips quivered as the mere thought of the author of all this chaos stirred in him an inhuman fear and terrifying awe that Regis could see plain as the sun upon his face. His body shook and shuddered under heavy sobs that threw Dandelion's heart and breath into an erratic dance. Regis wrapped his arms around his friend as the man buried his head in the front of his shirt and continued to cry.

"Regis, please," he stuttered, pulling back and taking a hard grip on Regis' shoulders, "tell me this wasn't for nothing. Tell me there will be enough left of Yennefer to bring her back."

Carefully, he pried Dandelion's hands free and held them in his own. He smiled kindly at him, presenting a gentle expression that was the culmination of years experience delivering news that he knew a patient would not want to hear but which had to, for their sake, be said.

"I can't, Dandelion," Regis admitted, "I can only promise that we'll do whatever we can to put her, and you, back together again."

* * *

Shani led Dandelion into the spare bedroom long after the remnants of breakfast had been cleared away, where he would remain for a further two days, speaking only to Regis, Shani and Nenneke and only sparingly. The guards around the main house were doubled in the wake of people's curiosity and desire to speak with one who had made the crossing as news of Dandelion's waking spread in hushed words and fearful rumours. People wanted to know what he had seen when walking the great lands of O'Dimm's daemonic Kingdom; to hear the tales from a world beyond life and death; and to known the true form of the eldritch Master who soon would plunge the realm of mortal men into iniquitous and unnatural darkness.

Regis too had a considerable longing to learn of Dandelion's experience, but he saw that the man was broken and could not bring himself to ask a single question about the man whom he so desperately wished to know more about. The knowledge that he would gain could not be worth fracturing further the mind of his friend for it might possibly already be beyond what even time could repair; Yennefer would likely be the same. Increasingly, Regis was beginning to think that in spite of whether her soul was returned, victory was assuredly O'Dimm's for misery seemed to be the outcome of every turn of fate.

The remainder of the day was spent by Regis upon the grounds of the estate as he made himself available to the curiosity of their forces, for Dandelion could not. Well practised was his speech when the light began to recede, for time and time again were the same questions spoken. Only with the Witchers, Eskel and Lambert, and with Nenneke did he have a thorough talk, speaking about O'Dimm and the coming conflict in light of the implications of Dandelion's state and the little that he had said to him and Shani. Many trials and tribulations would the proxies have to survive before they could but glimpse the magnificence of the black throne and they were not alone in their suffering, for O'Dimm too walked his grounds. Never might blood be spilt on the sun-baked soils of Corvo Bianco as long time would it be before Geralt and the others posed the slightest threat to the security of the Realm of Glass. Their spirits were low when the meeting was adjourned.

After their discussion, Regis made his way to the underground laboratory where he could hide for the night, working in relative secret for all his hours were sleepless and to no one but the Witchers did he entrust his secret. While he made the short walk, he heard a commotion coming from behind the stone walls, two raised voices heavy with a Skellige accent. A pair of dice, fairly won in Gwent claimed one voice, had gone missing. Accusations and profanities were being hurled around and more voices were adding to the ruckus with each passing second. Before he could see the scene with his own eyes, he heard the argument break-out into a fight and arrived to see punches and kicks been doled out and received by a number of burly warriors before Keira threw the men apart with a spell and started screaming curses of her own.

Regis watched for an instant before turning on his heels and returning to his previous destination. He reckoned that this incident with the dice must have been the seventh or eighth brawl there'd been in Corvo Bianco since the proxies went on their way. The number of disagreements and altercations was rising exponentially and increasingly the outcome was a series of bruises, broken bones and empty beds as people deserted the cause. Tensions were high and paranoia was running strife as the peace preluded a coming storm and presented no opportunity for relieving action. There was something in the air, Regis felt it, that was making everyone volatile. This was more than just nerves and fear; his birds hadn't sighted a single vampire within a three-mile radius of the estate because perhaps they sensed what he did. Something in the world was amiss.

After their meeting, when Nenneke had left to tend to Dandelion, Regis has shared his suspicions with the Witchers knowing that in their wisdom and with what they knew his of true form, they would not dismiss his claims. He was right, and together they agreed to keep an eye on things in the probably vain hope that this was a mystery that they could solve. There was something afoot in Corvo Bianco, for you see, on more than one occasion, Regis could have sworn he saw the shadows move.

* * *

Thomas Paine - The American Crisis: Chapter 27, The Vault and the Scribe

"These are the times that try men's souls."

* * *

Hope you enjoyed the update, sorry its a bit shorter than usual. How was your first look back at Corvo Bianco? There will be more chapters there but its more of a side plot, the proxies are the main event - don't worry.

If you're enjoying my work please let me know by leaving kudos, bookmarking or leaving a comment :)


	27. The Vault and the Scribe

Thomas Paine - The American Crisis: Chapter 27, The Vault and the Scribe

"These are the times that try men's souls."

* * *

The sound of the closing doors echoed loudly in the mournful silence that hung around their shoulders like mist draped over the tip of a mountain. From six to four had their fellowship now fallen, and at the rate that their companions expired no more than half would soon remain to carry on the journey to O'Dimm's Black Throne. Who among them, Geralt wondered, would be the next to pay the price for their voyage as they sailed ever further into the acherontic black depths of unfamiliarity, peril and impossibility.

Leaning heavily against the icy doors of the doomed mountain cave, the Witcher surveyed the place into which they had blindly rushed and hoped that they had not fled from one horror to another. Precisely circular did the room appear to be, smooth, curved stone blocks too large to be held up by the arms of ten men making up the walls which reached far above their heads, the ceiling shrouded in darkness. Eight bookcases two metres wide were carved into the stone at regular intervals around the room, an arms reach apart, each stacked fully with red-bound tomes half a metre tall and a dozen inches thick. Two to four foreign words were painted in black along the spine of each book and if there be any means by which these works were organised, then it was wholly beyond his comprehension.

The room was disturbingly still and precipitated a sense of dread and unease, the calm appearing to Geralt as a portent of another ineffable encounter. With a silent gesture of his arms the others stilled beside him, watching too for the signs of danger that the Witcher felt instinctively. As he waited, Geralt's eyes trailed on the middle of the room and upon a large oak desk of a peculiar oval shape which curved towards the other side the room. Someone was sitting behind it, facing them, though the details of their appearance were obscured by the stacks of parchment that blocked all but their scurrying hand from his sight, as it darted ceaselessly back and forth across an open book. Scaled in green were the fingers that gripped the curling feathered quill.

Geralt stepped closer to the writer, his footsteps echoing around the library from which he dared not read, and cleared his throat; the sounds of the mysterious figure's quill ceased. He heard a chair scrapping against the polished stone floor and saw a head then a body appear from behind the stacks of parchment. Gracefully the writer walked around the desk, her figure human in outline but visualised with the texture and colours of the lizard with which she shared the details of her face. Two large black, beady eyes were set deep inside her head above a slit nose and pronounced cheekbones. Where he would have eyebrows she had ridges which followed the edge of her eyes and then narrowed like a diamond to her sharply pointed chin. Three dozen dirty white feathers, closely resembling those of a bird of prey, stuck out from the top of her head, their tips drooping. She surveyed him with a human expression of boredom, the lipless edges of her mouth pressed together.

"You've kept Ekaz waiting long, vestiges. We being now, Ekaz has much else to do. No questions, only listen." Far more human did her voice sound than Geralt thought was anatomically possible, and though her voice was somewhat adenoidal and high-pitched it was also oddly pleasing to hear.

"These are the Vaults," she continued, standing with her arms crossed before him, ignoring the others completely as they came closer. "I am their keeper, Ekaz the Scribe and one of the Favoured. This one records the history of the Master's souls and conducts the liminal processing. Ekaz has been instructed to process you, come." She turned on her heels and walked to the other side of the circular room, stopping before a pair of doors identical to those through which they had entered. "The Trials of Torment," she tapped the door. "You will each go through them, Ekaz will come with you and take notes. After, you can proceed. Ciri first, come, come."

The Scribe held open the door and waved Ciri inside quickly, closing the door behind them.

* * *

After a few minutes Ekaz returned and bustled Philippa through the doors, and after her Istredd. She spoke only their names and sharply cut off their questions often before a word had passed their lips. Alone in the Vaults, Geralt sat atop the desk with his feet upon the chair and stared at the door that the others had passed behind. He brooded over the Trials and the atmosphere of anxiety and foreboding that surrounded him became almost tangible, disturbing the otherwise pleasant dullness of the Vaults and its unending stillness.

"Fret not, Geralt, your companions have not fled and left you, not presently at least. You'll be glad to hear that they've completed the trials. I'm sure you're eager to see them again, but I regret to tell you that I can't let them come back here while you're around because they might spoil the surprise. I'm sure you understand."

The snap of a closing book reverberated brashly against the curved walls and through the library's soundless veil. The Witcher sighed, exasperated though not surprised at the man's abrupt appearance; he'd known that a visit was long overdue. Turning his head slightly, he saw across the room from him the Master's back before a bookcase over which his hand skimmed, tracing the foreign letters naming the various crimson tomes that coloured the room. After passing several copies, he selected one and pulled it from the shelf. Geralt heard the turning pages and after a few moments O'Dimm approached him holding the book out in front of him, presenting its contents to the Witcher like a child holding out their painting so that it could be admired.

"I thought you might find this read rather interesting, Geralt," he explained, pushing the object closer to his face. Geralt's eyes drifted to the top of the page and he found that he could understand what was written there. He began to read. "It is a fascinating piece of work. You see, its the notes my Scribe has made on your Lady." The Witcher paused and O'Dimm patted him on the back. "Oh come now, don't you desire to take a peek. I'm sure that you do and don't worry, I won't tell. There's no shame in curiosity, Geralt, in its absence we would have no riveting tales to tell beside the hearth, and I admit that I am somewhat partial to a good story."

The Witcher shrugged off Gaunter's hand and stood up, turning his back to the dark book and its hideous temptation as he walked around the desk. But while the tome was out of fight, its image burned fiercely and without pause in his mind so that he could not hide from the obscene desire its calls aroused in him. Written upon the pages of that tome there might be in dark, bold letters, secrets that he had never known existed and lies that he had mistaken as truths. Its words could reveal to him that which few men have ever had the chance to see - the vastness of their own ignorance. If he were to read its pages, he could learn the complete history of Yennefer's life and glimpse with unparralleled clarity his role in her story.

Geralt heard O'Dimm set the book upon the desk and smooth out its pages. He did not turn. Truth is a dangerous lens through which to glimpse the universe. "I'm not interested in the book," he growled, "I'd rather know what it is you want to ask me."

"Ahhh, but Geralt, herein lies the point of my visit and the next offer I have for you. Yennefer's memoir."

The Witcher heard O'Dimm turn a few of the pages, pausing for several seconds in-between. The sound made his eyes twitch and flicker left to right while his hands cramped and his feet became restless. He walked back to the desk, keeping his eyes firmly on Master Mirror's face. Without looking down he slammed the book shut, quickly withdrawing his hand from the cover.

"What do you want?" he repeated.

O'Dimm smiled. "Let us strike a deal, Master Witcher. If you and the other proxies agree to leave my dear home and servants in peace, then to Yennefer I will gift dreams and" he tapped the hard cover of the tome with his knuckles, "memories." He walked to the other side of the desk and trailed his hand over the ridged top of the straight-backed chair that Ekaz had been occupying when they arrived. Before her trials had begun, Philippa had briefly mentioned to him her encounter with the Caretaker down by the lake and recounted what it was that he had told her of the Favoured. Geralt wondered what it was about the Scribe that had drawn O'Dimm's interest, and how working in the Vaults was punishment for her. "I shall have the Scribe make a copy of this tome that your Lady can read at her leisure when she is due to recover in the Hanging Gardens. Try as I might to twist her recollections and alter in her mind the history of her life, she will always have an unchanging copy to which she can refer if she chooses. Don't you see, Geralt, that this gift I offer comes at great self sacrifice? But, it is a choice I will gladly make if it means ending this most unpleasant feud."

The Witcher scoffed. He wasn't sure why O'Dimm insisted on continuing these false pleasantries, though he supposed that the man had played this part for so long that he could not willingly drop the facade as the mask had melted to his face.

He saw Gaunter roll his eyes at his expression and sigh with exaggerated melancholy. "I ask only that you think upon it, nothing more." The doors leading to the Trials opened a fraction and the Scribe slipped through the gap. "There you are Ekaz," O'Dimm beamed, spreading out his arms in welcome as the reptilian Lady walked briskly to the desk.

She was holding what looked like a wooden chopping board in her on hand, except that it was exceptionally thin and short in length. There was a stack of parchment on top of it which were covered in strange scrawls that he couldn't understand. Putting down the quill that she had in her other had, she placed the pieces of paper on the desk and picked up a fresh stack then her quill. Geralt noticed that she did not dip it in any ink and that there were no pots on the table. He supposed it was enchanted in someway.

"How go the Trials?" O'Dimm continued. "I hope that the proxies aren't causing you any trouble."

"The others have been processed. This one will take him now." She inclined her head towards Geralt and started towards the doors. The Witcher followed her.

"Excellent! Try to enjoy yourself Geralt, I'm sure that this will prove to be quite the experience. The Trials are a formality that all my souls go through, they help me to better understand those under my care you see, and to help my Servorums - my beloved creations - determine the best treatment. You've not been acquainted yet I suppose, but don't worry you'll meet them soon. Until next time."

* * *

Compared to the Library, the room of the Trials was dark as a cave. Geralt found the gloom comforting, it was more honest than a brightly lit room and didn't pretend that he was safe there. A basin of sky blue flame blazed in the centre of the room upon a small white stone platform decorated with more of the strange writing. For a moment it was all he could see, and then his eyes adjusted. Like the Vault, the room was circular in design, however it was smaller in height and width and the cave walls weren't hidden behind stone bricks. The floor appeared to be made of glass, but when Geralt stepped on it the surface rippled like water, distorting his reflection. At the opposite end of the room there was a stone archway pressed into the rock, half buried as though the mountain had grown around it. The air was heavy with smoke.

Ekaz closed the door behind them and stepped around the Witcher. "Hold the fire," she said.

"What with?" Geralt asked. He didn't see any torches or sticks.

"Your hands."

Geralt hesitated but Ekaz didn't elaborate. He stepped up to the basin and, palm down, lowered his left hand towards the flame. The dancing blue light licked his skin and a cold tingle ran up his arms and some of his hairs stood on end. He placed both hands in the basin, cupped them, and then carefully pulled them up. When he stepped back, he could see that there was a small flame in his palms. His head began to ache slightly, as it did when he splashed icy water against his face.

"Place it by the gate," said Ekaz. She pointed to a small goblet-sized hole in the floor between the two pillars.

Geralt knelt beside it and flattened his hands, tipping the flame into the gap as it slid off his fingers like a snow-ball. Either side of the hole, the same blue flame sprouted from the ground and raced up the sides of the archway, joining at the top. The fire in the archway grew and grew until there was a solid wall of blue flame branching between the pillars. Blue writing flashed on the headstone and Geralt heard a bell ringing in the distance.

The Scribe moved up next to him. "This one will walk you through the Trials. You will see and you will watch silently, while Ekaz takes note. Go, this one follows." She inclined her each to the wall of blue flame.

Geralt groaned. With his eyes closed, he stepped through archway cursing under his breath. He hated portals.

* * *

Mineko Iwasaki: Chapter 28, Broken Faith

"Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime."

* * *

Welcome back. We have entered the next segment of this story - 'The Trials'. I just want to clarify now that while each proxy (Geralt, Ciri, Philippa and Istredd, goes through all four trials, I will only show them going through one each. I think this section might drag on otherwise.

This is another short chapter, and so to reach the 3-4k words a month mark I will release another chapter in a few days. I realise that I could just combine the two, but I'd prefer to keep them separate. I'll likely do this next month as well.

Thank you for reading and I'll see you soon!


	28. Broken Faith

Mineko Iwasaki: Chapter 28, Broken Faith

"Stab the body and it heals, but injure the heart and the wound lasts a lifetime."

* * *

The temperature of the room dropped abruptly. Geralt opened his eyes and saw that he was standing in what he guessed was an old dungeon. Damp, mold and decay painted the dark grey walls, its stone bricks in varying states of wholeness, which explained the chill breeze blowing against his left cheek. There was a heavy wooden door to his right. It was enforced with metal and had a narrow slit going sideways across it at eye-level. On either side was a flaming torch, with another two at the opposite end making the room a little bit brighter than the place he'd come from.

Through the gap, Geralt saw two or three figures moving towards them. He stepped to the side but Ekaz didn't move. When the door swung open it, and the figures who entered the room, passed through her body. Geralt blinked, looked at his hands, and then pressed his right palm against the wall. It disappeared into the bricks. He left it there for a moment then pulled it back. It felt and looked the same. Geralt furrowed his brow. He wondered what these Trials might be if they weren't physical in nature. Only time would tell, he supposed.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Witcher saw two of the people who had entered leave, and shut and lock the door behind them leaving one other person in the room besides him and Ekaz. Standing behind them, he could see over their shoulder that they were strapped to a rusted metal chair bolted to the floor. Geralt walked around them so he could see their face. When he did, horror gripped him.

"Yennefer," he gasped.

Geralt knelt beside the chair and reached for her face. His open palms passed through her bruised and bloodied cheeks and his fingers brushed against each other somewhere behind her hollow eyes. He drew back his arms slowly, worrying that his movements might dash her image as a hand dispels a reflection in the water.

"Yen..." he called again.

Geralt looked her straight in the eye, and found that he could not see himself in their purple depths. All Yennefer saw, was a dark and empty room. Still, for all the good it would do, he stayed knelt beside her as she waited silently in her cell with half-closed eyes. If she was nervous about being caged, Yennefer did not show it on her face as he watched her. So Geralt worried for her instead, deeply and painfully.

After a short while, the Witcher heard people moving in the corridor outside. As he stood and waited, the door creaked open and two men entered. The first was a tall and well built man whose dark brown hair brushed the shoulders of his black and green winter robes. His face, which showed the faint lines and wrinkles of middle age, gave him a wise appearance and he would have been a strikingly handsome figure if not for the scar which disfigured half his face. Vilgefortz was as hideous as Geralt remembered.

Behind the Mage was Rience, his agent, who, like his Master, wore a scar upon his face that Geralt knew had come from Yennefer's hand. He was a head shorter than the other man, with matted brown hair and cheaply made battlemage armour that had properly come from the corpse of rogue Magician. He was carrying a silver tray lined with various instruments that made Geralt clench his fists, and a leather sack which he passed to Vilgefortz.

"I hope you slept well, Yennefer, because I have more questions for you today," said the Mage.

"And you'll have more questions tomorrow too, for I have no answers to give," Yennefer replied. She looked and sounded bored, but Geralt could hear her heart quickening. "You should know that much by now, Vilgefortz, then again, desperation can make one believe in impossible things."

"A truth that I expect you know well, Yennefer."

"Of course I do, I see it in you everyday."

Geralt watched while Vilgefortz worked his way through the contents of his bags, hooking up pipes, bottles and stands together around the chair and attaching some of the tubes to Yennefer. He wasn't sure what was going on, he'd never seen a laboratory set up like this or heard of any interrogations involving potions and flasks. Rince was standing in the corner, watching the Sorceress with a smile on his face. His anticipation made Geralt sick.

Ekaz was standing beside him, having still not moved an inch from the door. He could see her watching him and occasionally turning to her tablet, quill flickering back and forth. She didn't seem the least bit interested in what was about to happen.

Having finished setting up his contraptions, the bag lying empty on the floor, Geralt watched Vilgefortz walk back round the chair, passing through him, to stand in front of Yennefer. Nodding to Rince, who moved to stand beside a glass flask filled with blue coloured liquid and held up my a metal stand, the Mage held his hands over Yennefer's wrists and leant forwards.

"You know I don't want to do this, Yennefer. It would be such as waste to break you, but I must, unless you give me the information I want. You know I'll get it eventually, so why not tell me now and save yourself?"

Yennefer laughed. "You poor man, Vilgefortz. Forced by the burden of ambition and pride to torture a woman. I can't imagine how you suffer, you poor, poor bastard."

The Mage sighed and shook his head, his eyes dropping from Yennefer's face. Then, he rose and nodded towards Rince. Geralt couldn't see what the other man was doing, but when he turned aside the strange mixture in the flask was flooding down the pipes. Standing beside her, he saw Yennefer tense as she watched the liquid, and when it entered her body she clenched her jaw and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the end of the arm rest.

Vilgefortz asked Yennefer many questions about Ciri and where she might be while the flasks drained and emptied their contents into the Sorceress bound to the chair. He pleaded with Yennefer to show the girl to him, to look for her. Over and over he repeated himself, but Yennefer only cursed and screamed or remained stubbornly silent through the ordeal. Until, the Mage asked her something new.

He asked about him, Geralt, and something in the Sorceress seemed to change. Vilgefortz must have seen it too, for he asked for several more hours about him and appeared less frustrated than before, when Ciri had been the subject of his inquiry. When Yennefer was dragged out of the chair and led beyond the room to where Geralt could not follow, though he tried, Vilgefortz was busying himself giving orders while Rince cleaned his instruments. They had found the Witcher, and soon he would be dead.

Geralt remembered the faces of the agents Vilgefortz had sent to end him. He remembered them, because as they lay dead at his feet, he had thought that these were the faces of the men Yennefer had betrayed him to. That was the explanation that he saw. It came to him quick and with ease and he accepted it with little thought of what else it could have been.

And so, he tossed aside his trust in Yennefer. He let her rot in a cell while he enjoyed the sun and sex of Toussaint, and when he finally came to her, she'd said that she knew he would, because she trusted that he would.

The world faded to black. The Trial of Regret had ended.

* * *

Tess Gerritsen - The Sinner: Chapter 29, Forever Lost

"Only the forgotten are truly dead."

* * *

Here is the extra chapter I promised Xx


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